


Dies Irae

by HuntressDaughter



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Implied Goodnight/Billy, Multi, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Pre-Movie(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 183,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuntressDaughter/pseuds/HuntressDaughter
Summary: For eight years, Goodnight has known Billy, ever since he came barreling into his life in a Texas bar. For eight years, Billy has listened to all of Goodnight's spiels and soliloquies, but not once has Goodnight uttered a single word about what life was like before the war. But they both know Goodnight has a past that he just can't seem to get rid of.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [warqueenfuriosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/warqueenfuriosa/gifts).



> Date with Billy: April 1877  
> Date without Billy: June 1855

“You ever been in love?” Billy asks as they pass by this town’s saloon, and Goodnight’s first reaction is to laugh. Leave it to Billy to make him laugh on today of all days.

“What, have you taken up with one of the hussies?”

Billy shrugs noncommittally and pushes open the door to their hotel. “I just ask. I don’t know that about you.”

He falters on the steps while Billy continues up in his graceful way. If it had been one of the things that attracted him, it was also one of the things Goodnight hated: Billy’s quiet sincerity. He wants to believe this was just a silly question, but Billy isn’t one for those; he’ll jest and kid, but he never does something without reason, and he certainly never asks personal questions. It’s this quality in which Goodnight finds something to respect, and he feels that Billy is entitled to an answer, no matter how much he doesn’t want to give him one. A familiar empty ache enters his chest as his words, so quiet and distant that they hardly seem like his, leave his mouth. “Once. In another lifetime.”

After he’s toed off his boots and slipped out of everything but his underwear, Billy leans back on his bed. Uncharacteristically, he hadn’t heard the implication that Goodnight had no interest in touching on the subject—or perhaps he just didn't care—and he gives the older man something like a smile. “Can I guess?”

“You can guess all you want, but you won’t figure anything out.” Goodnight reaches for his flask and tips it back against his lips, only to find that it’s empty. What a goddamn perfect time.

“She was the—what do they call them—the belle of the county, spent her days strolling under a parasol, and had all the men falling all over her," Billy tries, the corners of his mouth turned up in a way that only Goodnight can recognize.

Goodnight closes his eyes. This was not a conversation he’d ever planned on having with anyone ever again, not even Billy, despite how close they’d grown. He’d left that part of him far behind on the banks of a Louisiana creek some twelve years ago. Or so he’d tried. He gets off his own bed to search for their liquor stock and brings the bag with him. This could take a while, and he has no intention of doing it alone.

For a moment, Goodnight doesn’t speak, but stares distantly at the wall. Finally, he takes the cork off the bottle. “First of all, we lived in Louisiana and had parishes, not counties. And the name was Augusta Evercreech from Saltmore Hall. She liked to read under the willow by the creek, had the curliest black hair you ever did see, and had the Devil himself in the form of sisters.”

“Did you call her Gus?” Billy’s voice after the pause sounds almost timid, a rare characteristic from him, so different from the assured man he usually is.

Goodnight’s head snaps up, eyes narrowed at Billy accusingly, whose face is as stony as always. Had the other man gone through his things? As much as he trusts Billy, he imagines him rifling through his packs, finding their letters, everything he'd managed to salvage, and he feels incredibly betrayed. “How'd you know?”

Billy looks him in the eye, and Goodnight knows he isn’t lying. “You talk in your sleep.”

* * *

One by one, the carriages came rolling up the road in a cloud of dust towards Fair Oaks. As each pulled to a stop, Mr. Aaron Magee and his eldest son Micah reached up to help the ladies out in a flurry of skirts and lace, hoops and crinolines. The Magee men would shower each girl with enough compliments to seem charming, and the girl would blush and move on to kiss Mrs. Kathleen Magee.

From the sides, Goodnight Robicheaux gathered with a few other gentlemen and watched as each lady alighted from her carriage. First came the Jarreau family in their famous yellow carriage with their infamous red hair flaming, fire emerging from the sun. Olive and Opal were the two sisters, Olive just making her debut after a line of brothers and Opal.

The Millers were next, with all five boys riding up on their horses and momentarily distracting the two hosts from helping down the fair-haired ladies in the Verret carriage. They came tumbling out in a whirlwind of overwhelming energy, sweet, silly fools the lot of them: there was Blanche, desperate for a proposal by Elam Miller before she turned into an old maid; Minerva, the petite youngest; and the twins, Hattie and Mathilde, who moved together in simultaneous raucousness.

“Oh good. Here comes the party,” Goodnight heard the man to his left, Ames Rubadeau say. Goodnight fiddled with a cigar in his fingers, twirling it but not smoking, and laughed. The Verret girls were lively to say the least. He looked into Ames’ face and saw the other man watching the sisters with a smile he had not seen before.

“And we know how you love a party.”

Ames turned his smile to Goodnight and poked him in the chest. “You just keep your eyes on the unclaimed.”

A red carriage came to a stop, and Mr. Magee opened the door. Micah held out his hand, and a little gloved one took it. Out stepped a girl with a head full of tight black curls and a bright smile, neck blushing at whatever Micah said.

“Who's that?” Goodnight asked, feeling like he'd seen her face though he was unable to put a name with it. She was lovely enough not to be quite plain, and upon first impressions, seemed quaint enough.

“Miss Augusta Evercreech,” Ames said, to which Goodnight whistled and shook his head. “She came out last summer after Mardi Gras. Currently unclaimed.”

When Ames said that, it clicked in Goodnight’s mind why she was so familiar. Besides the social events where their paths had crossed somewhat in the past, the girl in question was almost a smaller version of Salome Evercreech Saucier; almost, but not quite, and mainly because she had a smile on her face. The three oldest Evercreech girls, who had lived at the plantation to the south of the Robicheauxes, were known—aside from their breathtaking beauty—for a few rather unsavory qualities, but Augusta had not garnered that same strange fame as her sisters. Goodnight shook his head again. “I'll try my hand at one of the Verret girls before I ever try an Evercreech. Forgot there was one after Oceane. I recognize her now. Fellows should have learned their lesson after Anastasie, but somehow they still managed to get all caught up in the other two.”

Ames merely laughed. “Goodnight, I'm sure glad you're home. Why'd you even go off anyways?”

“Let's put it this way: now I can run the fields and recite Shakespeare.”

Ames rolled his eyes. “You could do that before you left. I can speak French, and that's good enough for me. I've got all the women that I need.”

“One Verret? That's all you can handle.” Ames shoved him away with a laugh, telling him to go find them some liquor. “Lord knows you'll need it!” Goodnight called over his shoulder, and Ames’ own unsmoked cigar hit Goodnight’s back.

He meandered through the crowd in search of Micah Magee, who would undoubtedly have whiskey, and was forced to stop repeatedly by people welcoming him home. He’d spent the last two and a half years at university in Charleston, studying the classics and devouring every piece of information he’d come across. Yet, as exciting as his studies had been, and despite the friends he’d made, he’d missed Louisiana and New Orleans. He wanted to hear the drawl of the Deep South that held no effect on impeccable French, and he wanted to roam the bustling streets of the city. He wanted to come home. And besides, tensions had been getting too high for him in South Carolina.

Goodnight had enjoyed seeing Ames, his childhood friend who did not share a passion for knowledge and who was more likely to be caught in a dress than with a book in his hand. They’d spent four days of the past week riding their horses and shooting guns, while Ames had tried to fill in everything that Goodnight had missed. Letters had taken care of the major things, but they had not mentioned the Millers’ ball where a polecat scared the Pajud horses and the fit that Oceane, the third Evercreech sister, had thrown at the smell, nor did they mention the hunting party where Amos Abellard had nearly blown off his own foot.

“Goodnight!” Micah cried, throwing an arm around Goodnight’s shoulders and teetering unsteadily, proving that he was wasting no time in getting drunk. “Good to see you! Found any ladies you want an introduction to?”

“Thank you, but the only introductions I’m seeking are to a couple of bottles of whiskey.”

Micah wagged a finger towards Goodnight. “Ah, you sonuvabitch, you. You know me so well. Thomas, fetch my friend Mr. Robicheaux here two—”

“Three,” Goodnight said, just to test exactly how drunk Micah was.

“Three bottles of whiskey,” Micah told the nearest negro boy. When the boy had run off, Micah clapped Goodnight on the shoulders. “Goodnight, you sonuvabitch, it’s good to have you back. It’s been ages since there was a party at Foxsong. You know what you need—a ball. You need to host a ball now that you’re home. Don’t tell my mama, but there ain’t no one around here with balls like the Robicheauxes.”

After the words left his mouth, Micah grew quiet and looked Goodnight straight in the eyes. Then he burst into laughter. “No one around has balls like the Robicheauxes!”

Out of mostly amusement at how drunk Micah was already, Goodnight chuckled politely, noticing how those close to them were staring; he didn't mind attention so long as it was for the right reason, but Micah rarely brought about the right kind of attention. “That’s a good one, Micah.” The negro boy returned with the whiskey, and Goodnight took it quickly and pocketed a bottle, ducking away before Micah could say anything else.

“About time you came back. I was beginning to think you’d run off back to Charleston with all of it.” Then Goodnight held up two bottles, and Ames whistled. reaching for one. “Say, I’m going to have my barbecue with Mathilde, are you sure you don’t need me to introduce you to anyone? Lots of girls came out while you were gone—or did you get sweet on one in Charleston?”

“You won’t meet prissier girls than those in Charleston. I’ll be fine, Ames.” His friend didn’t seem convinced. “Ames, this hasn’t changed. You’re still chasing skirts, and I’ll get around to it when one strikes my fancy.”

Dark eyes twinkling in a way Goodnight had long learned meant that Ames was up to no good, his friend shrugged. “Alright, Goody, whatever you say. But I insist that you eat with us nonetheless.”

* * *

Under one of the oaks for which the plantation got its name, Goodnight and Ames, along with the two youngest Miller boys, took their barbecue with the Verret twins and Minerva, the twins’ best friend Augusta Evercreech, and Opal Jarreau, and as usual, the Verret girls didn’t stop chattering. Goodnight was content to sit back and let Ames and the twins have their fun, getting in a jest when one of them stopped for a rare breath and only feeling the slightest bit out of place after being away for so long.

“Goodnight, I believe you know Miss Hattie and Miss Mathilde, but this is their sister Miss Minerva, Miss Augusta Evercreech, and Miss Opal Jarreau,” Ames had managed to say at first, before he was promptly blinded by the lovely creatures in skirts.

Since then, Goodnight, Opal, and Augusta had been overshadowed by their raucous companions. The two girls had taken up their own quiet conversation on the side, giving Goodnight a chance to get a better look at the group.

Out of all five, Minerva was by far the prettiest, with dainty little features and bright fair hair, but she was a Verret, and as much as Goodnight loved to talk, and as much as she was overshadowed by her sisters, she was making his head spin. Opal, the redhead, had donned her best blue muslin dress, and if she hadn’t had such a blank look in her eyes, she could have been appealing. Up close, Augusta’s own eyes, green, were slightly buggy but lively, and even if it was fake from talking to Opal—which Goodnight couldn’t determine no matter how hard he tried—she kept the smallest little smile on her face, just enough to be noticed and make one want to smile too. _Approachable_ was the word Goodnight thought described her.

When she seemed to notice Goodnight was not taking part in any conversation, Augusta put a hand on Opal’s dress. “Oh dear, Opal, we’ve been so rude. Mr. Robicheaux has just come home, and we haven't said a word to him. And you know we simply must, considering our other companions.”

Goodnight couldn't help but laugh, even as Augusta’s eyes widened almost sheepishly, neck reddening at her words getting ahead of her lips. “No worries, Miss Augusta, I was not offended by any part of your statement.”

“Please excuse me,” she said, ducking her head to hide a smile. “That was not kind at all.”

“I believe it serves to shed some light on a predicament of mine. You see, I was just sitting here wondering how you, so fair and mild, could possibly be one of the Evercreech sisters.” If he hadn't been a gentleman, the look on her face told Goodnight that she would likely be rolling her eyes at him. “How are you sisters, by the way? I haven't heard about them in a good while.”

“If only we were so lucky,” she teased, taking a deep breath, brow furrowing in concentration. She began slowly, perhaps to keep herself in check. “Anastasie is living in New Orleans, down on Pyrantia Street. She has three children now, all boys, thankfully more akin to Amos. Salome is as ornery as always, she's at Dorian Saucier’s plantation in Reggio, one girl. And Oceane—well, to our relief, she's a good ways away in Baton Rouge. No children. Again, thankfully, for the children's sakes.”

“Don’t remember much about Anastasie, she was married before I started coming around. Of course, no one can forget Oceane, but I remember Salome, though by then she was engaged, I believe. Truth be told, Salome scared me a little.”

Augusta laughed sharply before she could stop herself and then pressed a hand to her mouth, casting her eyes to Opal as the other girl rose and went to meet Mrs. Magee, who was making her way towards them. “Oh, Salome is as harmless as she is heartless.”

“Well, it's no matter. I would not like to end up on her bad side. She was a good bit older, and between that and that scowl, I could never find the courage to ask her to dance.”

“Pardon me,” Opal said, returning and breaking into everyone’s conversations, “but Mrs. Magee is curious as to whether the ladies are ready for a nap.”

“We’ll be right along, Opal,” said Augusta before turning back to Goodnight. “It has been a pleasure meeting you. I hope I’m not as frightening as Salome.”

Goodnight gave her a lopsided grin in return. “Not nearly. I’d have to say you remind me more of Oceane.”

Her face paling, Augusta’s expression immediately changed from one of happiness into one of horror and disgust, but when Goodnight laughed, she grinned too, color returning. She huffed, hands on her hips with a good-natured smirk. “I hope I never hear that again.”

And with that, Augusta and the Verret girls followed Opal into the house, which was already filling with ladies for the mid-afternoon nap.

* * *

As the day turned to evening, the gentlemen downstairs could hear the ladies upstairs getting ready to make their appearance. They listened in amusement at the twins scolding Minerva for taking their ribbons, at the tragedy of Miss Evangeline DuBois’ ripped skirt, and about how they needed to get Olive Jarreau’s hair in shape if she was ever going to have any luck. And then the men went back to smoking cigars and drinking their brandy. Eventually they retired to change into their formal wear, taking no time at all in comparison, and waited at the foot of the stairs for the ladies.

Next to Goodnight, Ames bounced from foot to foot, chattering away happily; in all their years together, Goodnight had become adept at not paying attention to Ames’ rabbit trails, just as Ames had done with him, but he perked up when Ames mentioned Mathilde. “I hope she wears that purple dress. I declare, she could wear that purple dress every day, and she’d still be stunning. She’ll probably come down with Miss Augusta, don’t you think, Goody?”

“I suppose,” Goodnight agreed, though he had no clue who the twins would come down with. But he would not be opposed to it being Augusta; she'd been right captivating at supper, hinting at an unknown vivacity under her soft demeanor, and he hadn’t been able to escape those big lovely eyes once she’d turned her attention to him.

Ames elbowed him. “You better ask her for a dance—ask her when she gets down. It won’t look strange if she comes down with Mathilde. You’ll look like you’re with me, and I’ll go up to Mathilde, and you’ll have to talk to Miss Augusta so that you don’t look rude. No one will think anything of it, if that’s what you were worried about.”

“Why do I want to ask Miss Augusta for a dance?” Goodnight asked, almost irritated with Ames. Over and over hundreds of times, he’d insisted that if a girl came along and he liked her well enough, then he’d make plans from there; but since he’d been home, Ames had become even more transfixed on finding Goodnight a girl, and it was likely he’d suggested every girl he knew between Foxsong and Baton Rouge.

“You two hit it off just fine at supper, and don’t look so surprised that I was watching. Why wouldn’t you want to ask her for a dance?” Goodnight started to reply that she was an Evercreech girl, but Ames cut him off. “Don’t give me that. You know she’s ten times friendlier than Salome and nothing close to Oceane. Now that you’re home, you’re going to have to do some dancing.”

“I’m not arguing to dancing, Ames—"

“Goodnight,” Ames said, serious for once, eyes solemn and out of place in his childish face. He put his hand on Goodnight’s shoulder. “It’s just a dance, and you two were friendly enough. Please?”

“I’ll think about it,” Goodnight said to pacify him, but his stomach somersaulted at the thought of asking Augusta to dance—not that he hadn’t considered it all afternoon.

Obviously appeased for the time being, Ames began to prattle on again about this girl and that, always circling back to Mathilde and Augusta. Ames chased skirts and loved women in his own way, but Goodnight loved them in another; Ames loved women for what they could give him, but Goodnight loved them for what they were: God’s greatest gift to man. He loved the way they moved, the way they spoke, and he loved how quietly resilient they were. Women were made to be adored and treasured, not pursued for fun as Ames thought, and it was this notion that made him so nervous.

But Goodnight stood happily at the foot of the stairs and watched as each lady made her descent, arms linked with a friend’s, laughing and talking behind their fans. The difference between them at supper and now was astonishing, and he was amazed at how a pretty dress and the thought of dancing could make them so giddy.

They heard Mathilde and Hattie before they were seen. Sure enough, Ames had been right. Hattie and Minerva came first, followed by Mathilde, luckily in her purple dress, carefully watching Ames while she whispered to Augusta, who had something akin to self-conscious embarrassment on her face. Whatever Mathilde said made her look over the railing to where he was, and with a blush, she gave him a smile and nod, and turned gracefully back to Mathilde, who looked like she was receiving a scolding.

Before he realized what was happening, Ames, with a whistle, had drug him by the arm to where Mathilde was. “My, oh my, aren’t you two stunning! What do you say, Goody?”

“Yes,” Goodnight stammered once he’d recovered his voice, “positively radiant.”

Mathilde paid him no mind, but his head swelled at her companion’s blush. Miss Augusta was pretty, in her own way, with her tight curls now falling unpinned around her shoulders and down her back, and a soft green dress about the color of her eyes. As Goodnight noticed this, he tried to reach deep down to find his courage. He could do it. “Miss—”

“Augusta, come with me,” Minerva said, tugging Augusta away without even a glance to Goodnight, though Augusta sent him an apologetic look over her shoulder.

As they made their getaway, followed by Mathilde and her expression of fury, Ames turned to Goodnight with a look on his face of utter astonishment, having obviously realized Goodnight had been in the process of going along with his plan but had been thwarted by a tiny little girl. Goodnight could only shake his head and say, “Goddamn.”

“Goddamn,” Ames nodded.

* * *

The ball was winding to a close, with only one dance left, and it was now well into the morning. Try as they might, neither Goodnight nor Ames had been able to corner Augusta, and on more than one occasion, Goodnight had caught Mathilde looking as though she were about to throttle someone.

“Miss Augusta,” Mr. Magee began just before the last song, “would you do us the honor of a story?”

“Me? Oh, you don't want a story from me,” the girl in question replied, waving her hand as if to brush the request off. At the uproar of the crowd, her signature blush crept up her neck, and Goodnight, despite his frustration, couldn’t help but grin when he noticed. “Well, if you insist.”

“You’re in for a treat,” Ames said. Around him, Goodnight heard whispers about Miss Augusta telling a story float through the air, and everyone began to gather. Once she had taken a seat on the porch steps and settled her skirts around her, she gave them all a closed-mouth smile that was no longer bashful and peered into the faces of those closest to her, batting her eyes just enough to draw attention to them.

“Now. We all know a skeptic, and Tom was exactly that. If science couldn’t prove it, he didn’t believe it. Mind you, Tom was a big man, tall and proud, and he wore his opinions like he wore his fine pocket watch: where everyone could see. Well one fine evening while the moon was full and bright, Tom was down at the—the _watering hole_ , if you will—shooting the breeze and enjoying drinks with some other local men, when the topic turned towards ghosts. One of the men, Louie, began to tell them about his old Uncle Alastair and the nearby cemetery. And Tom wasted no time in telling people what he thought.

"‘Oh, there ain't no such thing as ghosts,’ he said, loudly so that even the deafest of ears could hear. ‘Science has never proven that there are, so they must not exist.’"

Goodnight stood in place, enraptured by the words pouring from her lips, the way her voice was somehow equal parts meek and confident, and how her lovely face could change expressions on a dime. And, well...he’d never been able to turn down a good story.

“Well, Louie was a bit offended, and he snapped right back at Tom, ‘There are ghosts, and I can prove it. My Uncle Alastair was here one night on the full moon, just like tonight, mind you, when he realized he’d been out much longer than Aunt Mamie had said. So he tried to hurry back, and he took a shortcut through the old graveyard. As he was passing through, he felt something on his ankle, something that felt like a hand wrapped around, and he went crashing down. It was as if something was trying to use him to pull itself out of the ground. He gave whatever had him a few swift kicks, and when he finally he shook off what had him, he made a beeline for home.’

“Now, everybody else there at the pub, they all agreed that Uncle Alastair had been grabbed by something supernatural. But Tom was a stubborn man by nature, and he just shook his head. ‘The only spirits that were in that cemetery were the ones that Alastair brought with him. He probably just tripped himself over a root or a marker.’"

At this the crowd buzzed with hushed laughter, each of them entranced by whatever she was saying, by even the slightest flick of her wrist as she gestured animatedly.

“By then Louie was really offended, as any man in his right mind would be after being called a liar. He pulled out his hunting knife, and he slammed that blade into the counter in front of Tom. ‘Alrighty, Tom, why not put your money where your mouth is? If you’re so brave, then you take my knife, you go to that cemetery tonight, and you put it in the ground in the very center of the place. We’ll know if you were there or not.’

“Tom thought he had nothing to fear. Science had never proven there were ghosts, and he wasn’t going to let Louie get to him, so he took the knife, and he set right out towards the cemetery with no fear in him.”

At this point, Augusta pulled an uncertain face and spoke a little slower, voice wavering slightly. “But he got to the gate, and even though there was a full moon, it was still rather dark, and even Tom had to admit that it was a little unsettling. But he was not going to be called a coward, and so he pushed through the gate and right to the middle of that cemetery, and he bent down to put the knife in the ground.

“And then, everything got quiet. The frogs and the crickets stopped singing. The moon disappeared behind the cover of clouds, and a wave of fog rolled over the land.”

A hush had fallen on both Tom’s world and the ball, and the crowd collectively inched a little closer to hear the speaker, who had paused with her hand clutching an invisible knife.

“By then, Tom was good and spooked. He pulled out the knife, raised it in the air, and plunged it down into the earth. Except...well, he must have hit a root, or a rock, or something because—you see—that knife did not go into the ground. Well, Tom wanted nothing more to get out of there. He tried once—twice—thrice— _four_ times before he managed to sink the knife deep into the dirt. He gave a cry of triumph and tried to jump up but—he couldn’t move! Something had hold on the front of his coat!”

Goodnight felt the pounding in his chest, felt his heart speed up and his breath catch; he was ensnared by the lilt of her drawling voice, but he had no urge to free himself, even if his heart did give out.

“Tom cried out again, this time in fear. He grabbed onto his coat and tried to wrench off whatever had him, but try as he might, he was stuck, and stuck tight. His heart hammered in his chest. He just knew that he was going to be pulled into the ground and that it was time to meet his maker or the Devil. With one final tug, he fainted.

“Now, wanting to see if he actually followed through with it, the men from the bar had followed Tom and heard him a-tugging and a-yelling. When they stopped hearing Tom, they got a little worried and went to see what had happened. There was old Tom, out cold on the ground. They rushed to pick him up, but they too found that Tom was stuck. And then they began to laugh.”

Giving them a sheepish grin, Augusta pulled her head into her shoulders. “You see, in his hurry, Tom had gotten a little reckless and accidentally put the knife through the lapel of his coat. The men pulled the knife out, and they carried Tom back to the bar, and to this day, Tom swears up and down on the existence of ghosts. The men at the bar never tell him any differently.”

And then Augusta sat back and folded her hands on her lap, not seeming the least bit phased at the uproar of the partygoers. Goodnight let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding and heard Ames chuckle. When he glanced over to him, Ames was watching him with a smirk. “If you hurry, you can probably catch her. There's one last dance.”

For once, Goodnight didn't mind that Ames was doing everything in his power to get him to dance. Any girl that could weave a yarn like that was one he wanted to know. With a hard swallow, Goodnight took a deep breath, straightened his cravat, and fixed his coat before making his way to the porch just as the music started. He quickened his pace to cut off Micah, who was headed in the same direction.

“Excuse me,” he heard Augusta say to the ladies who were surrounding her when he caught her eye. Goddamn, his mouth was dry.

“Miss Augusta, I may have never danced with your sisters, but it would be an honor if I could do so with you.” Inwardly Goodnight congratulated himself at not stammering, and even if she declined, he would be mostly happy that he'd just gotten his sentence out.

But he watched as her lips curved upwards, tentatively at first, as if trying to suppress it, and then all at once she was beaming, and he couldn't get enough. It could have been how the moonlight fell on her face, or the way her eyes crinkled, or maybe the way she said his name, but he realized that there was something about her that was right pretty. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Robicheaux.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As last chapter, the year date is April 1877 when Billy is around and June/July 1855 when they're in New Orleans.

For the first time in a long while, Goodnight readied himself bright and early Sunday morning to go to church. It had been hard to go while he'd been in Charleston, since there were not nearly as many Catholics in South Carolina as Louisiana, but today he was going to the church he'd grown up in with his family, the one his father had seen built, and he was glad he was home.

As the Robicheaux sibling carriage pulled up to the church, Goodnight looked out the window and felt a new rush of contentment at the familiar faces all milling about in front of the building before Mass.

“Excited, Goody?” Across the seat from him, his sister Valentine grinned wickedly. “I saw you last Thursday.”

Goodnight had hoped she would grow out of her meanness, but on the contrary, Valentine had merely learned to skillfully conceal that part of her. At fifteen, she was already beautiful, with their mother’s fair hair and sharp blue eyes; she'd have more beaux than she could keep track of once she came out, even with her mean spirit.

“Funny how people see each other when they share a house and carriage,” Goodnight said as his ears heated. This was the conversation he'd been waiting on but hoping wouldn't happen. Friday when he'd come down for breakfast after the ball, Valentine had sat across the table and smiled wolfishly at him, a cat knowing she had caught a mouse; she loved secrets and gossip, and he’d known just what she had on her mind. But he'd buttered his toast, didn't give her a chance to speak, and steered clear since then.

“I saw you at the barbecue and the ball."

“I don't remember you turning sixteen,” Goodnight said to her offhandedly.

“I wasn't at the ball, but Mama didn’t take me home either. Made me stay upstairs all night.” Rolling her eyes, Valentine crossed her arms, forever peeved that she wasn’t allowed to showcase herself. “I just looked out the window, and I saw you cut off Micah Magee to dance. She's right there, if you want to speak.”

“Don't point, Val, that's not proper.”

“It's just you in here, I can be as improper as I please,” Valentine snapped with a toss of her lovely head. “Come along now, let us mingle.”

Before he could answer, Valentine flung open the carriage door, leaving Goodnight with no other option but to step out and help her down. Passing through the doorway and transforming herself into a proper lady of society, she linked her arm into his and led him, more or less, through the crowd, stopping to flash her dazzling smile and speak to whoever caught her eye.

While his sister was paused by the DuBois clan to discuss their upcoming party, Goodnight took the moment to scan the crowd. He loved seeing everyone in their best, loved the sober but happy air that always followed Sundays, and he always had a surge of pride when he saw the church his father built.

“Oh, Goody, you must meet this lady!” Valentine suddenly shrieked, much louder than proper, and a flash of annoyance struck Goodnight as people turned to stare; he liked attention, but only for the right reasons. “Brother, this is Miss Augusta Evercreech. Augusta, have you met my brother, Goodnight?”

To Goodnight's surprise, two ladies turned when Valentine addressed Augusta; the one being spoken to smiled easily, but the one to her left gave only a cold stare with one eyebrow cocked, looking like she would spit at them at any moment. Whereas Augusta had been right pretty at the ball, she now paled in comparison. Salome Evercreech Saucier could have been every man’s dream, with her heavily-lidded grey eyes set against mahogany hair and full lips; but her lips were usually turned down in a scowl, and her eyes always told you that if you lived or died, she could not care less.

Wide-eyed, Augusta’s head swiveled back and forth between the Robicheaux siblings and Salome. “I had the pleasure at the Magees’, Valentine. Mr. Robicheaux, Valentine, have you met my sister Salome?”

“I don't believe I have properly. It is an honor, Mrs. Saucier,” Goodnight said, sweeping his hat off his head as he lowered into a bow. To no avail.

Salome, raising the one eyebrow higher than Goodnight could have ever thought possible, was evidently not impressed. She gave Goodnight a once-over down her nose, half snarling, then cut her eyes to Augusta. “Robicheaux, you say?” She had a slow, husky voice, and dripped each word with disdain. Augusta couldn't even answer before Salome had cut her eyes to Goodnight once more and, seemingly deciding they were not worth her space, turned and stalked away, hips swaying.

While Valentine stood with her mouth open, Augusta, eyes twinkling, pressed her lips tightly together. Finally she said, “Mr. Robicheaux, it is not honorable to charm a married woman like that.”

Snapping out of his surprise, Goodnight couldn't help but laugh. It seemed time and marriage had not worn Salome to sweetness. “I'm remembering now exactly why I couldn't ask her to dance.”

“Why, I never,” Valentine huffed as Augusta pressed a hand to her mouth and Goodnight’s shoulders rocked with laughter.

In that moment, Goodnight wished his sister was not there, nor the crowd of churchgoers. Augusta looked like she was stretching at the seams to contain a slight of the tongue, and Goodnight wanted to know what it was, wanted to pry the secret from her red lips. He must have been staring because he noticed the blush creep at her neck, and she cast her gaze down. But he wanted her to keep looking at him.

“It's been lovely to see you both. Good day to you,” Augusta said, nodding at the Robicheaux siblings as she headed towards the church with her family. Salome, now on her husband’s arm, did not look back.

When they took their seats a few rows ahead of the Evercreeches, out of the side of her mouth so their parents didn't hear, Valentine hissed, “You haven't offended her, have you?”

“I'm afraid I never had the pleasure of making her acquaintance,” Goodnight whispered back, hardly realizing that he was answering. He knew the Evercreeches were behind them, and he didn't know whether or not he was imagining the eyes on his back.

* * *

“Once upon a time, Billy, everyone had said Anastasie Evercreech would struggle to find a husband, but as far as I know—and I’ll never know any differently—she had no issues whatsoever. And then it was Salome’s turn, and everyone thought that, sure, she was absolutely breathtaking, but she was too mean to ever get married. But along came Dorian Saucier, and she must have been somewhat sweet because it wasn’t long before he’d proposed.

“Billy,” Goodnight states, “I don’t know if Salome tricked Dorian or all of New Orleans.”

Billy flicks the ashes from his cigarette with a slight of his middle finger, his lips twitching faintly.

“She was a right snake, that one, but I'll tell you what. There weren't too many people whose… _respect_ I wanted to have, but Salome was one of them.” He scoffs. “You never knew what she would do. She'd scowl at you until you expected it, and then she'd be grinning away. You'd think she was going to call you a sonovabitch—her second favorite word, behind the root of that—but then she'd just laugh and swat at you. On my honeymoon, I bought her this beautiful bonnet, and when I gave it to her, she said in the flattest voice possible, ‘What a color.’ Say that, Billy.”

“What a color,” Billy deadpans, and he can’t stop a smile from spreading across his face when Goodnight laughs.

“Just like that, she said it just like that. Oh, the disappointment of that moment.” Goodnight offers Billy his bottle of whiskey and takes a long, sobering swig when Billy returns it. “I think I eventually earned her respect, but I’ll never know that either.”

* * *

“Alright, Aggie, we have you all to ourselves now.”

When Hattie said that, Augusta knew she was in trouble. Her parents milled about inside the Verrets’ parlor, sleepy from lunch and the heat, and she hadn’t thought much of it when the twins had dragged her outside since they were often scolded by Mrs. Verret for being too rambunctious. As sweet and friendly as they were, Hattie and Mathilde were not quite as proper and docile as their mother hoped.

“What is it,” she asked nervously. Had she known the twins had a ploy up their sleeves, she would have put up a fight, but it seemed too late to make an escape inside.

“Well, we just wanted to know what you thought of the Magees’ ball the other day. We never had a chance to catch up, you see,” Mathilde began, trying in vain to look as innocent as possible, and Augusta felt her neck heating, knowing where the conversation was headed. “Who all did you dance with, again?”

“Let’s see here...there five dances. First was Micah Magee—”

“Oh, Minnie danced with him, and now she’s determined she’s going to catch him,” Hattie scoffed with a snarl, rolling her eyes, obviously unimpressed, and Augusta thought she heard her mutter, “Stupid.”

“And there was...next was Josiah Miller—don’t look at me like that, Hattie, I couldn’t very well say no—and then I danced with Ames while you were with Micah, Mattie. Fourth was Ansel Delacroix, and then I finished the night with Goodnight Robicheaux.”

“And what did you think, which ones seemed promising?” Mathilde pressed closer, like a child eager for a treat, blue eyes twinkling.

“Don’t you dare even think for a moment that I could have any interest in Josiah, and I’d never even consider Ames, Mattie. If Minnie wants Micah, then he wasn’t so interesting that I’ll miss him, and besides, I think he was drunk before we went inside for a nap. I suppose that only leaves Ansel and Goodnight.”

“Would you really want to live out at Flipeau?” Hattie asked, always the more particular of the two. “Tobacco? And I hear the fields stink so much from the slave quarters. Imagine you trying to host a party and the fields stinking.”

“You’d be the talk of the town, alright,” Mathilde agreed.

Augusta rolled her eyes. “Hattie, Mattie, you’re telling me that my only option from the other night is Goodnight.”

Goodnight Robicheaux, making his returning debut to New Orleans, now a good deal taller and more filled out, but still with those sharp blue eyes. She hadn’t seen him since a year or so before she came out, when he had been quite smaller and hadn’t given her anything other than a passing glance. But then again, with her sisters, no one had given her more than a passing glance, not when she was so quiet and her sisters were so loud and obnoxious, in her opinion, save for Salome who rarely spoke unless it was to call Oceane a bitch; her sisters who would not have needed to have opened their mouths to turn heads. She had never paid any mind to him either, but at the Magees’, he’d been so charming and had all the girls chattering, now that the Robicheaux heir was back home. The handsome devil, he knew how to make a return, that was for sure.

“Now, that’s not what we’re saying,” Mathilde began, but Hattie, taking up her sister’s eager expression, said, “Wouldn’t you love to live at Foxsong? Oh, Aggie, wouldn’t it be so nice to be a _Robicheaux_? You could have whatever you wanted and live in that beautiful house.”

“You don’t get married based on what house you want to live in, Hattie,” Augusta scolded, though she couldn’t keep from grinning, knowing that was exactly how Hattie would choose a husband. She shrugged. “Besides, I’m afraid there’s no hope with him. Valentine came to introduce us today, and Salome probably scared him off.”

“Sal—how could she,” Hattie shrieked suddenly, pounding her fists on her lap, face aghast because she knew that Salome had no qualms about letting people know what she was thinking. “That hag, how could she have done that!”

“Shhh,” Augusta hissed, glancing over her shoulder at the house and covering Hattie’s mouth with her hand. “Don’t act like Oceane, or you’ll have everyone out here.”

Hattie shoved Augusta’s hand away, frowning impressively, a foreign gesture on her lips. “Ames told Mattie...he told Mattie you and Goodnight...Aggie, I really hate your sisters.”

Before Augusta could add anything to that thought, good or bad, Mathilde had joined in. “Hattie is right, Aggie. Ames…How could Salome have scared him off?”

“She was just Salome. What is this about Ames?” But the twins simply shook their heads in unison.

There was a little part of Augusta who was resentful of Salome too. Her sister had a knack for scaring off men almost as good as she had a knack for drawing them to her, but Augusta didn’t see why Salome had to scare off men who weren’t even interested in _her_ —at least, not all of them. If she wanted to scare off Josiah Miller, that was one thing, but Goodnight…

He was handsome, and worldly in a way other gentleman weren’t. Perhaps it had been the way he spoke, with his slow, deep voice, hanging onto words as if he put a good deal of thought into what he was saying, or the way he had walked with long strides and just a hint at a bounce in his step. She had liked the way he grinned, all lopsided until his lips really pulled back and made his eyes crinkle, and how he had leaned towards her ever so slightly when they spoke.

Then Augusta caught the twins smiling wolfishly, exchanging glances between themselves, and she realized she had been grinning too.

* * *

At the very south end of Foxsong, the creek that flowed through the parish separated the Robicheaux family from the Evercreeches. Goodnight had spent a great deal of his boyhood free time down by the creek. He’d gone there to practice his shooting, which his mother knew nothing about; to fish, which is what he always told his mother he was doing; and to read, which is what his mother most likely suspected he was doing.

He loved reclining beneath the willow with his hat covering his face and doing nothing but listening. Usually he only heard the babbling of the creek and a few frogs and birds, but if he listened closely, he could sometimes hear the work songs floating down from the fields, and if he was very still and came late enough in the evening, he’d been lucky enough to spot a handful of foxes for which the plantation was named.

Today, with a few hours before dinner, he had decided to take a walk down to the creek, fishing pole in hand and a book in his coat pocket. As he passed by the southern field, he saw his father sitting atop his horse next to the overseer, the two men surveying the work; his father pointed to the eastern field and made a sweeping motion with his hand, and Goodnight couldn't help but to smile. Maxence Robicheaux, family patriarch and parish paragon, the man with the softest heart and the strongest back; Goodnight didn’t think he would ever know a better man than his father.

He had just started to whistle when the creek and his willow came into sight, but he almost stopped in his tracks. His willow was taken.

When she heard his whistling, Augusta raised her head from her book and regarded him as if she was deciding whether or not to be angry by the interruption. She settled on a warm, closed-lip grin. “Good day, Mr. Robicheaux. I hope I haven't taken your spot, but recently I've found it to be a lovely place. The creek is narrow there, and I can just hop, hop, hop right over on those rocks.”

“Good day, Miss Augusta.” What a great, terrible situation he found himself in, to have a lovely, captivating lady under his tree, looking right at home with her book and blanket. Goodnight wondered if the heavens or the Devil were smiling on him, and somehow, he didn't care a single bit that she was in his spot. He nodded to her. “My apologies for interrupting you. I'll be going, if you'd like.”

Augusta shook her head, and the sun caught just so on her deep black ringlets, which beckoned his fingers as they danced. “As far as I know, fishing isn't a noisy pastime, and I fear I am on your property, so I believe it should be me who leaves.”

“As far as I know, you sitting on that blanket and reading isn't causing much damage. If it suits you, I'll stay here and let you be.”

“That suits me fine.” She flashed her teeth, and Goodnight nodded to her again, turning away to fix his line so that she couldn't see his red ears. When he had his hook adequately baited, he tossed it into the pond and glanced to see what she was reading. _Wuthering Heights._

“‘I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.’” Goodnight quoted under his breath, remembering one of the lines that had stuck out most to him.

“Have you read this?” Glancing over his shoulder, Goodnight found Augusta gazing at him with wide eyes, mouth drawn in such a way that was both hopeful and surprised. “That line, Brontë wrote it. Have you read this?”

“Of course,” Goodnight answered, and when her face lit up, he knew that if he hadn't have already read it, he would have instantly told her to hand the book over and he would get right on it, fishing be damned.

“I'm surprised. I feel as though most think this is…well, a girlish book.”

“Miss Augusta, to my knowledge, literature has no gender and is intended to be read by anyone who wishes to read it.”

“Oh, how exciting!” she gushed, leaning forward slightly, and Goodnight wished he was sitting on that green blanket next to her. “I should have known you liked to read by the way you spoke, but I feared most men would have no use for books and only cared about the crop. Not that I would know, my poor papa has been so outnumbered, so I couldn’t base my judgement completely off him because it wouldn’t be fair, but none of my sisters had any taste in literature.”

“Yes, I'm afraid Val has more important things to occupy her time too. Like which dress she’ll wear to the next ball. She is very accomplished at the piano though.” His own book was growing heavy in his pocket, and he longed to pull it out and see her reaction. “I take it you read often?”

“Any chance I get. It doesn't matter if it's a science journal or a novel, or even the newspaper, though Papa doesn't approve of that. He says I have enough silly ideas without me trying to be versed in current affairs and it isn't my place to say any of them, but it's not as if there's anyone to listen to them, so I don't see how it matters. I agree—”

Perhaps she noticed his rapt, amused expression, but suddenly Augusta closed her mouth. Where she'd been bubbly and excited, she now blushed, ducking her head and looking almost ashamed. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get going like that, but when thoughts get in your head, you just have to get them out. My parents are always chiding me for it.”

Goodnight wanted to reach out to her and tip her chin up so that she met his eye and tell her he was always getting thoughts in his head that he just had to get out. He wanted to watch her solemn expression melt away until she was smiling and her eyes were not doleful but lively again. Softly, just loud enough that she could hear him, he said, “I didn't mind one bit, Miss Augusta. It would be a privilege to know what you agree with.”

But Augusta merely shook her head at him and gave him a gratefully sheepish look. She stood and picked up her blanket. “It's no matter. I really should be going, Mr. Robicheaux, I may be late for dinner. Thank you for letting me stay, however brief it was. I apologize for distracting you.”

He was sorry she was leaving and that she wouldn’t entrust him with whatever it was she agreed with. As she was walking away, Goodnight remembered the upcoming party at the DuBois residence and called, “Miss Augusta!”

Goodnight could tell by the way she turned around, pausing before taking slow steps that she really did not want to face him. “Yes, Mr. Robicheaux?”

“I reckon you'll be at the DuBois’ on the Fourth?”

“I don't miss a party if I can help it.” He hated how tired she sounded and wanted the lilt to come back to her voice.

“Might I have the honor of a dance?”

And then, the corners of her mouth tugged up before she could stop them, and somehow, he knew she was trying not to smile, which only served to invigorate him. “Of course, Mr. Robicheaux.”

Goodnight’s stomach wouldn't stop somersaulting. “And Miss Augusta! The pleasure was mine today.”

_You sly devil,_ her eyes said, but she turned for the last time with a toss of her head that he took to mean she didn’t mind his slyness one bit.

* * *

A strand of grass tucked into his mouth, Ames stretched out on the bank of his family’s pond. The sun blared down from the sky, but beneath the bald cypress, they were protected from its harshness. Thinking Ames had fallen asleep, Goodnight reached into the pack he had beside him and pulled out a book he’d picked up after the train had stopped in New Orleans. _Hard Times_ by Charles Dickens, the one he’d planned to read the other day until he’d gotten distracted.

“Goody, you best put that book down, or so help me God…” Ames muttered through teeth clenched around his grass.

“Or what?”

Ames opened one squinted eye. With the sun hitting his hair just right, he seemed to radiate a golden shine, falsely cherubic with his brown cow eyes and plush cheeks, and Goodnight thought he would have looked right at home if he'd been swathed in white robes and basking on a cloud. A man who enjoyed his food and drink, he leaned towards the plump side, but it suited him. “Well I won’t shoot you, that’s for sure.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Let’s talk, Goody.”

“You know me so well.” Goodnight feigned bashfulness, throwing his hat over his heart, and Ames shook his head.

“Asshole. Heard you, uh, met Mrs. Saucier at church.”

“You heard? There wasn’t much to hear. I think, Ames, that you watched this event unfold from the safety of Miss Mathilde’s side.” Ames smirk was his response. “I believe her sister got a right kick out of it.”

“Who, Miss Augusta?” Ames asked, and Goodnight could hear from the excitement in his voice that this was the topic he had wanted to talk about. “You seemed to have hit it off with her.”

Goodnight tossed his book onto his pack with a sigh, knowing good and well that he wouldn't be doing any reading. “Alright. I’ll bite. Yes, Ames, I would say that we've hit it off.”

“Do you love her?”

After he recovered from his shock, Goodnight could only laugh. Ames could fall in and out of love with anything in a matter of minutes, save for women, which he always loved.

“I don't know her!” The look on Ames’ face was full of disbelief. “I can't tell you I'm in love with her when I don't even know her. I can't tell you how she takes her tea, or if she sings when she's all alone. I don't know what color she thinks looks best on her, or what she even thinks of herself. But she's something new. She has that look like she's just heard the most the most wonderful secret, and when she smiles, I must smile back. And she has that—that mane of hair, and when she moves her head or a strand of it falls, I have to stop myself from touching it.” If Goodnight hadn't been lost in his soliloquy, he would have noticed Ames look of utter pride. “And goddamn do I want to know what she's thinking. She keeps teasing me, eyes flashing like she has a secret, always stopping herself from saying it. I just want to ease her open and let her spill everything to her heart’s content. How lucky would I be to be entrusted with that?”

Springing into the air, Ames suddenly hollered and slapped his knee with his hat. “I knew it, I just knew it! I knew that you would like her. When she came out after you left, she told this marvelous story about a toad and a boo-hag, and I said to myself, ‘Ames Rubadeau, this is the girl. This is the girl that's going to change Goody’s mind.’”

“How’d that story end?”

“Not so great for the boo-hag, but don’t try to change the subject. You best get to courting her.”

“I don't know her, Ames. How can I face Mr. Evercreech and tell him that I intend to marry his daughter when I don't even know her?”

“You'll get to know her after you're married.”

“Yeah? And I reckon you'd be the one to learn the alligator’s got teeth after you get bitten.”

“Well the DuBoises are throwing a party on the Fourth. You leave it to Mathilde and me, and you can have every moment of the party with her.”

“I can do my own bidding, thank you kindly. And besides, I can’t monopolize her, or everyone will talk. And not about me.” With an inward sigh of relief, Goodnight congratulated himself that he hadn’t told Ames he already had a dance saved, nor had he mentioned that he knew Augusta liked to read under his willow tree; that had not been a proper meeting, however short, and if word got out, they’d both be in trouble. He turned to his friend suddenly. “You know what I don't understand? How did I forget there was one after Oceane?”

Releasing a sharp bark of laughter, Ames laid back down. “There's what, eight years between them? Ten? She wasn't out yet, and Oceane never gave her a chance to be noticed at a gathering. And we were all worn out after Oceane was married and wanted to forget all the Evercreech girls. But Goody, I'm so glad you're back, and don't you worry, I'll put Mathilde in her ear.”

Goodnight grunted. “I can do my own bidding. Now are we going to do any fishing, or are you just going to lie there all day?” 

“Put that goddamn book away,” Ames grumbled as he reached for his pole.

* * *

“I’ve got it right here,” Mathilde Verret said breathlessly, waving a little card in the air with one hand and pressing the other to her chest. Upon Ames’s request, she had gone bustling through the crowd and now returned with the object of his desire. “She excused herself, but I got her programme before she got away.”

The card passed from Mathilde to Ames and then finally to Goodnight, who hurried to get it open with uncooperative fingers. Not wanting to be awoken from a nap, Valentine had taken her sweet time getting ready, and only the Sauciers were later than the Robicheauxes, though Goodnight, from only his brief meeting, doubted Salome cared whatsoever. But Goodnight cared, and he cared a great deal. If he was too late, he may not have a chance to put his name down.

Inside, each line for a gentleman’s name had already been filled. All three blinked at the card, as if not able to fully comprehend what had happened. Goodnight felt his stomach drop. “Goddamn it, Valentine.”

“It’s full,” Ames stated, and fury flashed across Mathilde’s face. She jerked the card from Goodnight’s hand in an unladylike but immensely Verret way, muttering about what a vazey little ratbag Augusta was.

Feeling very betrayed and extremely embarrassed, he was considering going home to keep from facing her when his mind registered the fact that both Ames and Mathilde were speaking and he hadn't heard a bit of it. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re already down,” Ames said, and shoved the card into Goodnight’s face.

When he managed to get the card at a distinguishable distance, he carefully read each name on it. There he was for the opening reel, and there he was again for the final waltz. But there was no way that he had written his name, and judging from Ames’ surprise, his friend had not done so either, though his name was on there once. “I didn’t do this.”

As Mathilde plucked the card from Goodnight’s hands once more, she smirked. “I know whose handwriting this is.”

* * *

“May I speak honestly?”

“It would be a privilege if you did.”

While Goodnight strolled lazily through the hedges with Augusta on his arm, the party came to a close, though rumor had it that the Mr. DuBois had procured fireworks. The final waltz had concluded, and he'd asked her to take a turn with him. As was only customary.

“I didn't put my name on your card.”

In the dim light, he could just barely make out her face, serene and almost laughing. “Mr. Robicheaux, I promised you a dance, and a lady must keep her promises.”

Her hand on his arm was small and warm, and he had a terrible, irrational fear that if he moved the wrong way he would crush it, but under no circumstances did he want her to remove it. He noticed her arm next to his, and the way her soft voice was slightly lower, how her head came just to his shoulder. From the side, he could see the way her nose curved up just slightly, just enough for someone to see if they were paying close attention.

“You put me down for two.”

“I wanted to assure myself that you were as good dancer as I thought and that the first time wasn't a fluke.” Her skirts swished with every step, and Goodnight could feel them brushing against the leg of his pants. For some reason, his every sense was hyperactive, but he his mind was still for once. “Tell me about Charleston, Mr. Robicheaux, that must have been exciting.”

“It came to remind me of our New Orleans in its own certain way, old and proud though sleepy. The city is lovely and sits right on the bay. I used to go there in the mornings sometimes while it was still dark—you wouldn't believe how it looked as the sun painted the sky, and the palmetto trees along the bay looked just like shadows, black against the water and the sun.”

Up and down the rows of hedges they wandered while Goodnight told her everything about Charleston. When he said something that caught her interest, she turned her face up to him, and when he said something funny, she tipped her head back to laugh, unrestrained and carefree. Soon he realized he was racking his memory for those moments just to hear the sound. When Mr. DuBois set off the fireworks, both Goodnight and Augusta startled before realizing that they had spent too much time away. He caught her eye, and somehow a silent understanding passed between them that they needed to return to the party no matter how much they wanted to linger in the garden.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Augusta,” Goodnight said when he delivered her back to the Verret twins. And then, in a burst of confidence, as Augusta dropped into a curtsy, Goodnight brought her hand to his lips.

“It was my pleasure,” she answered with a ghost of a smile on her mouth, eyes locked with his, and if there hadn't been people around, Goodnight thought he would have put his lips somewhere higher than her hand.

* * *

Goodnight looks to Billy, waiting for the other man to pass some sort of judgement, but of what, he doesn’t know. Until now, he’s only listened silently, stoically, just like normal, except for the story about Salome and the bonnet, and Goodnight can’t even read his face to see what he’s thinking. It’s a feeling he doesn’t like, the uncertainty, not knowing what Billy is thinking. His name and Billy are all he has left in this world, and if he loses them, he can’t imagine what he would do.

Faced carved from the substance of his “name,” Billy blinks once and takes a long drag of his second cigarette, blowing out the smoke in perfect circle, and it’s only then that Goodnight catches a hint of emotion—satisfaction. _Jumped-up little shit,_ Goodnight thinks fondly, reaching for the cigarette.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I love the Goody/Billy relationship, and I have so many things I want to do with them after this is over.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Billy: April 1877  
> In New Orleans: October/November 1855

“So how do you keep yourself entertained, Miss Augusta? Besides reading?” Goodnight gave her his best sideways smirk, allowing it to reach his eyes, as he elbowed Augusta.

The two were reclined one what must have been Augusta’s favorite blanket, green checkered and wool, while the Indian summer breeze shook the branches of the willow around them. At his elbow, Augusta leaned away and fell onto her elbow. “You like to aggravate, don’t you, Mr. Robicheaux?”

“I like to see what I can do to get a smile out of you,” Goodnight answered, and when one spread across her face, he gently swiped his thumb over her bottom lip. “And there it is.”

“Don’t you have a book you’d like me to read? That usually keeps you still and quiet for a few minutes.” Her eyes tried to scowl, but she couldn’t get the smile off her face nor the blush from her neck to make it effective, and when she realized it was in vain, she shrugged. “Well, mostly I help my mama, but when I’m not doing that, I like to play our piano, and I go visit the twins when Sam is free to take me. I think you’d like my friend Sam. And oh—I love to paint, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“I must insist that the name’s Goodnight, darlin’. But do you now?” Goodnight pushed himself from his elbows to his hands. He’d expected her to say stitching or something of the sort but not painting; what a curious little creature she was.

Though it was nearing the end of October, the day was still warm, save for the occasional wind. Secretly, Goodnight, wanting to see what his coat would look like on her small frame, hoped it would cool off soon, if they were going to keep up their little rendezvous.

It hadn't been his complete intention to start seeing her like this—at least, he hadn't meant for it to become routine. The week after the DuBois party, he hadn't been able to rid her from his mind; she’d lingered there, the slight upturn of her nose, the way she would look up from under her lashes when she knew she had something to say that was out of place but she wanted his permission to say it anyway; he could hear her laughing, always how she laughed, and how she said in her captivating drawl, “Mr. Robicheaux.” So he'd come down to the creek the following Monday, then Tuesday, and again Wednesday, when she'd finally been there. Like the time before, he'd stood a good ways away with his fishing line and offered conversation every so often.

Here they were, nearly four months later, with Goodnight lying next to her on her blanket, always shooting the breeze or listening as she read aloud—that was how he’d finished _Hard Times,_ as well as a handful of other books and one play—but he told himself it wasn't wrong since his intentions were strictly honorable.

“I’ll paint your portrait if you’d like.”

“You will?” He sat up completely now, body turned towards her, intrigued at this new facet of the youngest Evercreech.

Wednesdays had become his favorite day of the week, when he could lie next to Augusta and bask in her company. He didn't care that she was reading; he was content to be next her while she did something she enjoyed, content that he could be part of it. Slowly he was figuring her out, delving into her mind. He was understanding how she interacted with her sisters, how Oceane drove her mad and always stole the spotlight, and how Salome was cold but at least sensible, and how Anastasie was so much older that they didn’t know each other too well. He was understanding how she had come to be so mild but, if he would let her, bubbly and teasing. When he was with her, his own mind was calm, and he couldn't get enough of her.

Augusta nodded. “Of course. Next week though, I don't have the things I need now, you see.”

“I look forward to this.” While Goodnight laid back down, Augusta brought her book back to her face, and without even thinking, he picked up her free hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Mr. Robicheaux,” she chided quietly in a sing-songy voice, but only halfway pulled her hand away, leaving the tips of her fingers in his.

“Name’s Goodnight, darlin’,” was his answer as he played gently with her fingers before she completely reclaimed her hand. He would get her to call him that one of these days.

* * *

Augusta had walked the path between her veranda and the creek enough times that she could make the trip with her nose in her book. She was as engrossed as Israel Potter by George Washington’s speech and, eyes devouring the words on the page in front of her, did not notice Sam sitting on the veranda steps until she nearly stepped on him. “Oh stars, Sam, you nearly scared the daylights out of me! Why didn’t you say anything?”

With a sly, unapologetic grin, Sam looked up at her from beneath his lashes, never once pausing in his peeling of the sweet potatoes. “Where’ve you been, Miss Augusta?”

The way he said it sounded like he knew exactly where she’d been. Augusta felt the blood drain from her face, but she tried to raise her chin, attempting one of Salome’s fearsome expressions and knowing she was failing miserably. “Reading,” she said, unable to think of a good enough lie.

“You must have started the book over then,” Sam quipped, pointing out the fact that Augusta was nowhere near far enough along in her book to constitute her spending half the day reading.

Before Goodnight had come home, she’d trekked down to the creek maybe once a month when it was pleasant outside at best, and in comparison, she was now spending copious amounts of time there, so of course Sam would have noticed she was slipping away. He was too observant not to notice, and not for the first time, Augusta wished he was slightly more inattentive. “I was being good.”

The corners of Sam’s lips twitched, and his dark eyes said, _Oh, I bet you were._

He didn’t push the subject, and knowing that conversation was over, with a huff that released all her frustration with him, Augusta plopped down on the step next to him, unladylike in her movements, and pulled from her makeshift pocket a pair of apples, which she offered to Sam.

“Have a snack with me.” An opposition bloomed on Sam’s lips, and when she saw it, she added, “Please?”

Just as she expected, Sam chuckled to himself and, putting down the sweet potato and knife he'd been using, took one of her apples with a shake of his head. “Miss Augusta, I think you're the only white woman in the world who'd ever say that.”

Augusta smiled around her apple. “I get my way when I use that word.”

The two sat in the veranda steps, eating their apples in a comfortable silence. That had been the foundation of what Augusta always described as friendship; in a time when Saltmore Hall had been filled with the shrill, bickering voices of her older sisters, Sam, her mammy’s son, had emerged from the ruckus as a silent solace, and when her only other option for a playmate had been Oceane, Augusta had taken to him instantly. He'd been the one to find her when she'd been locked in the cellar, the one to say with only his eyes that Anastasie and Oceane were grating his nerves too, and the only other person in the house with whom she'd been able to share her love of books. Sam was her headache relief and her afternoon chat.

“I was being good, Sam.”

“Miss Augusta,” he replied, finishing his apple while she hadn't even made it through a third of hers, “you keep telling me that, and I'm going to think you're up to no good.”

“Well I haven't been bad.”

“I don't want to know any more, Miss Augusta.”

* * *

There was a rock right under his posterior, and it had been hurting for a while now.

If he hadn't been so overwhelmed at first, Goodnight probably would have noticed that he'd sat on a rock to begin with, but Augusta had been a little more than excitable as she set up her things and when asked where she wanted him, she'd said, “Oh, I don't know, I suppose over by the water would be nice, just wherever you want.” So he'd taken a seat in the first spot by the creek that he'd seen just so that she didn't get upset, more than a little unsure of what to make of her new rambunctiousness.

“ _Je voudrais que la rose, fût encore au rosier.”_

But now he had a rock under his posterior, and he couldn't help but to move around. A little ways away under the willow sat Augusta, with an easel and a palette of paints in front of her.

“ _Et que ma douce amie fût encore à m'aimer_. Oh, stars, I'm painting myself!” People didn't smile in portraits, but Goodnight watched her, almost serenely childlike beneath the willow with her hair tidy and a stained smock over her dress, a stripe of orange now marring her cheek, and he couldn't keep one off his face. In June, he had told Ames that he didn’t know if Augusta sang when she was alone, but today he had learned that she sang when she painted, and her favorite seemed to be a traditional French song that he couldn't help but add his voice to the refrain.

_“Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai.”_

Finally she cut her eyes to him and let them linger. More than once, it seemed, her brush, which she held poised in the air halfway to her canvas, had strayed from the canvas and onto her hands and wrists, which were streaked with a multitude of colors. “That's my favorite song.”

“You sing it beautifully,” he complemented, finally rising stiffly from his spot because he could not take that rock anymore. “May I see how you’re doing?”

“No, sit back down, I’m not—” she stammered, thankfully waving the hand without the brush as Goodnight had already crossed to where she was in a few of his long steps.

For once in his life, he was speechless. Her enthusiasm had led him to believe that she was secretly an artist, but her painting was fairly lopsided, the lines uneven as if done by a shaky hand. The man on the canvas, dark-haired beneath his hat, wore clothing close to the same color as Goodnight, and he was seated on the embankment of a creek, but the similarities stopped there. Around the edge of the water, she’d painted bright orange, yellow, and red flowers, successfully giving the creek the appearance from a distance that fire enveloped it. Instead of the bright day with the sun high overhead, the sky was dark and spattered with little white dots, and a waxing crescent moon hung low in the top right corner.

“I never said I was good,” she said, breaking the silence. Goodnight finally looked from the painting to Augusta, who gazed up at him expectantly with cautious doe eyes. Oh, what thin eggshells he was walking on.

“This is entirely unexpected,” Goodnight said once he found his voice, and he hoped it was polite enough that she wouldn’t take any offense.

“I haven’t been here at night, but I imagine you have. And you looked so peaceful over there that I just had to make it nighttime—you know how lovely it is when the moon is out and bright, and you see, there’s Orion because I wanted the stars to have depth and I’m sure that you know all the constellations, but Orion is the only one that I can ever find.” She paused to gauge his reaction, and he never wanted to hear her speak with such disappointment again. “You don’t like it.”

“Au contraire, Miss Augusta.” Taking a seat next to her, Goodnight finally gave her his lopsided grin, and his stomach leapt when her lips pulled back bashfully and she ducked her head. “This is, beyond even a shadow of a doubt, my favorite painting, and if you would allow me, I believe it would look perfect in the main hall at Foxsong. 

And then, confirming his suspicions that she had been holding back the gesture all that time, Augusta rolled her eyes, so quickly that he would have missed it had he not been watching her face, and Goodnight couldn’t curb the deep bark of laughter that escaped his lips. He did, though, check the urge to kiss her cheek and instead swept his thumb across the smattering of orange she had painted on it. “You embarrass me, Mr. Robicheaux.”

But he could tell that, behind her blush, she was trying not to laugh too.

* * *

“I sat on that goddamn rock for a good two hours, Billy.”

Even on his way back to the house, he hadn’t been able to sit in the saddle properly, the feeling of the sharp rock still pressing into him, and he hadn’t gone two hundred yards before he’d dismounted, which had been for the better, considering the painting was still wet. Walking had also given him time to figure out how he would get the painting into the house and out of sight until he could smuggle it to New Orleans for a frame the following month. How he’d explain the sudden portrait of himself by their creek, he hadn’t the slightest idea, but he’d been smooth enough to figure he could make up some story.

At some point in the night, Billy has become invested in story time, though not enough for him to vocalize his questions. But Goodnight can read Billy as well as his favorite book, and the look in Billy’s eyes says, _Was it worth it?_

Just like he doesn’t ask personal questions, not vocally, Billy never does anything without good reason, doesn’t do anything if he doesn’t figure the returns will outnumber the costs, and Goodnight reckons that’s how he’s gotten so far. He could have been a good businessman had his circumstances been different.

_Was it worth it?_

Goodnight thinks hard. There were lots of decisions he’d made in his life that had not been worth it, half of them involving Augusta, and a good half of the others involving Billy. If he was given the choice, Goodnight knows without having to pause the ones he’d change, the ones he wouldn’t bat an eye to. Was sitting on that goddamn rock for so long worth it?

He thinks about the new insight he’d been made privy to that day. It hadn't take much to make her happy, but he thinks he’d unconsciously decided on the banks of the creek that he wanted to keep her happy. He remembers the day Augusta had come to Foxsong as the new lady of the house for the first time and had seen her painting hanging on the wall almost as soon as she’d walked through the door. He remembers watching her paint all those other canvases and the look she’d tried to contain when he’d hung them in the house, no matter how bad they were.

He can’t remember anything but her smile, if that answers the question.

* * *

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Belles were expected to only show an expression of gaiety, but in the past few months, Goodnight had discovered Augusta had a face of glass. She cut her eyes sideways at him, snarling slightly, obviously unimpressed on how he had chosen for them to spend the day. She hoisted Goodnight’s rifle up to her stomach and faced him. “I don’t—”

Involuntarily, Goodnight’s hands flew to his head, and he ducked away. “Miss Augusta, darlin’, if you’d be so kind as to not point that thing at me, I’d be much obliged.” He didn’t know how he’d explain a bullet wound without giving away their secret—and he had no desire to be shot.

“Sorry,” she said, and turned the gun so that it was no longer facing him. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, blinking rapidly a few times to still his racing heart.

“Now, just remember what I told you, and you’ll be fine. Keep that foot behind you, and look straight down the barrel. There you go, you’ve got it. Remember it’ll kick, but you need to let it surprise you. And when I say, pull that trigger _slowly_ , remember that part. Do it _slowly_. And...FIRE!” Augusta pulled the trigger, and the rifle immediately bucked into the air, throwing her shoulder back. She cried out, mostly in fright, and stumbled backwards before lowering the gun. The paper he had tacked to the tree was perfectly intact. “Goddamn, that was—” he caught her eye. “—that was your first try.”

“That was loud, and I did not enjoy it.” She held out the rifle. “No more.”

“No, no, that was good,” he said with a smile and nod, to which she pursed her lips and pushed the gun nearer. “One more try. I have an idea.” Goodnight maneuvered behind her, pressing against her ever so slightly and partially crushing her crinolines, and she shifted uncomfortably. He tried not to think about how he probably would get shot for this.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you trust me?”

Augusta whipped her head around with a frown on her pretty lips, though it was one of uncertain wariness than unhappiness, and was met with a grin from Goodnight. “You are asking a loaded question.” 

“And you are holding a loaded gun, darlin’. Now turn back around.” After one final scowl, she obeyed. “You did really well the first time with your form, it was just the kickback that got you. This time, get mad at the target, you’ve got to get really mad.”

“I’ve got to hate it?”

Goodnight thought for a moment and shrugged. “Yeah, that’s the idea. Hate what you're firing at. Alright, you’re lined up just great. Hold that steady—thatta girl. Don’t pay any mind to this.” He pressed closer. “You just focus on shooting. You’re not going anywhere, so don’t be scared of the kick. Now I’m going to cover your ears, and when I do, you can shoot any time.”

Taking careful consideration not to squeeze too hard, Goodnight pressed his palm to her ears. He watched her shoulders raise and lower as she took a deep, shaky breath, felt her back shift against his chest. Goddamn, they were close, and this was not proper in the least. He barely had to move his head at all to press his lips to her cheek...

The bang brought him to his senses. Augusta ricocheted into him with an “oof,” but he stayed where he was and kept her upright. And when the smoke cleared, there was a single round hole in the top left corner of the paper. Beaming, Goodnight lowered his hands to her shoulders. “I’ll make a sharpshooter of you yet.”

“I imagined it was Oceane.”

* * *

Billy has lost his stoic expression and is now wearing one of pure bewilderment. He blinks once. “You taught her to shoot? A rifle?”

Goodnight pulls at his beard sheepishly, noting he needs a shave, and tries to laugh. “I, uh...I can’t explain that one. I’d intended to showcase my skills and shoot the nail on the paper—even back then I had quite the reputation around New Orleans for being a damn good shot—but I have no idea exactly what spirit possessed me to give her the rifle. And then she told me she’d thought about Oceane, and I said to myself, ‘Goodnight, you have just become an accomplice in murder.’”

The joke is still on him.

Finally Billy chuckles to himself, shaking his head, lips curving up around his cigarette, and scoffs, “A rifle. Knives would have been better.”

* * *

“Mr. Robicheaux?” Augusta asked one day, timidity making her stomach dance. “May I ask you something?”

Goodnight glanced up at her, and when he saw the uncertainty in her eyes, he sat up, face clouding with concern. “What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

Augusta swallowed hard and bit the inside of her cheek in contemplation. She’d been scolded harshly by her father when she’d asked him what the situation was about, but she couldn’t imagine Goodnight doing the same thing, not when he had yet to show a mean bone in his body, when he was nothing but kind and gentle. Not that it wouldn’t be wrong of him to put her in her place, but she didn’t want to face him if he did. “It’s just...I heard my father talking about something the other day, and I didn’t understand it, and he won’t tell me. You don’t have to answer, but I thought you would be honest. He said something about…ruffians in Kansas.”

By the way he paled, coupled with her father’s reaction, Augusta thought maybe she didn’t want to know about the ruffians anymore. “I understand that you don’t have to tell me if it’s none of my business. But if it affects you and my father, it must affect me somehow too.”

“It’s...it’s sort of tricky, Miss Augusta. It’s getting a bit dicey in Congress. The government decided to let Kansas choose on whether it wanted to allow slavery or not, and people are very polarized. They’ve had some... _skirmishes_ break out.”

He was choosing his words too carefully to actually mean skirmishes; she and Salome had skirmishes with Oceane and Anastasie, and that was nothing to be concerned about—not unless Salome really got set off. She thought about the look of uncontrolled fury Salome would get in those moments that told the world Satan was manifesting himself in her, and Augusta’s stomach dropped. “Are people dying?”

“Yes,” Goodnight answered after a pause, much quieter than usual. His sharp eyes kept roving over her face, searching for something she didn’t know. He had the most wonderful eyes, so clear and pensive, always looking at her like she was bearing magnificent news.

“Why, though? Why should people die for this?” Augusta asked when she’d realized he was speaking and turned to the ground. The season finally chilling, the wind blew harshly, and she pulled her arms closer to her.

Goodnight sighed and moved closer, shrugging off his coat to drape it over her shoulders. “Why do you think your sisters are so loud?” When Augusta shook her head, Goodnight continued, “Because people like to have their voice heard, and they go to extreme measures sometimes to see that happens. See, if Kansas became a state, then it would throw off the balance in Washington, which would mean one side of the slavery argument would be represented more than the other side. One side wouldn’t be as heard.”

She couldn’t stop herself from wringing her hands inside her muffler. People were dying, and she didn’t quite understand how they couldn’t find another way to solve the issue; obviously, they needed slavery, and that settled the matter in her opinion, but for whatever reason, people were dying. At that thought, she looked away from Goodnight. “That’s scary.”

“No, no, no,” he soothed, reaching out to pat her muffler. He smiled, a true one, not his endearing, lopsided half-grin. “Fear not, Miss Augusta. Things will smooth out just fine. Hey,” he said, swiping his thumb across her cheekbone and leaving a tingling trail in its wake. “You don’t have any reason for worry.”

When she looked back at him, catching his eye, Goodnight gave her a bigger grin until it almost became straight. Something in the way he said it felt so reassuring and made her believe him; or maybe it was the fact he’d said it at all, that he’d been respectful enough to tell her the truth, which made him seem so reliable; or even still, it could have been how much closer he got when the nerves set in, as if trying to keep whatever was unsettling her at bay. Whatever it was, it was comforting to know that she could trust him to be honest with her, and Augusta couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face and tugged his coat tighter around her body. It would make do for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "A la claire fontaine." The lyrics translated are roughly:
> 
> Je voudrais que la rose, fût encore au rosier: I wanted the rose to stay on the rosebush.  
> Et que ma douce amie fût encore à m'aimer: And for my sweet love to still be loving me.  
> Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai: I have loved you for a long time, never will I forget you.
> 
> And yes, that is Sam Chisholm. But don't worry, he'll be in blue just like Goody says.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy: 1877
> 
> Augusta: 1856 Mardi Gras Season

“The Degarmo-Labelle wedding is next month, right in the middle of the season. I don't know how they're going to manage that, poor planning on their part. Mattie liked to have had a fit when she found out it was during Mardi Gras, so I guess that takes care of three months that we’ll never have ours. Say, Goody, speaking of weddings, are you ever going to—damn this thing!” Ames suddenly cursed, tossing his cravat into their air.

Goodnight looked up from where he'd wordlessly been putting on a pair of emerald cufflinks and sighed as he moved across his New Orleans bedroom to help his friend. “Ames, are you going to learn to dress yourself?”

“I can dress myself just fine, thank you. It's just that I can never get this thing tied.” In four swift, deft movements, Goodnight had an elegant knot tied around Ames’s neck.

“I reckon you can manage your shoelaces,” he asked, and went back to his dressing table for his other cufflink. Tonight was the Castex ball, perhaps the biggest of the Mardi Gras season behind the Fat Tuesday party that Goodnight’s family hosted.

“Oh, look at you, Goodnight Robicheaux, marksman extraordinaire and esteemed cravat tier. Just put on your jewels and hush,” Ames snapped in retaliation, nose high in the air with false egotism but with his good-natured twinkle in his eye. “As I was saying. Are you ever going to start courting Augusta? I know you’ve been sweet on her since the Magees’.”

“Are you ever going to actually propose to Mathilde instead of just talking about this supposed wedding? I know _you’ve_ been courting her since before I got home.”

“You only know that because of Augusta. I'll get around to it one of these days, and she knows that. But what about Miss Augusta? All you do is make cow eyes at her, and everyone can see there is something going on that you aren't telling us. Tell me that you're going to start calling soon.”

Back to Ames, Goodnight let out a sigh of relief, glad his friend couldn’t see his face. His whole being had frozen when Ames had implied there was something secret between with Augusta, but Ames didn’t seem to know that he was right. He struggled to compose himself, stammering, “I don't know, Ames. She's…she’s lovely, but—”

“But what? You know what your problem is? You overthink things.” Ames straightened his coat and, crossing to where Goodnight was putting on his shoes, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Goody. It's obvious that you adore her. Please, for my sake and hers, don't think about it and just find the nerve to do this.”

Goodnight wanted to be angry at the implication that he was a coward, but he knew Ames was right. Countless times since arriving in New Orleans, he’d watched her ride by in her carriage and considered going to speak to the Evercreeches while she was out, but he’d yet to get up the nerve to do it. He kept asking himself, _What if?_ _What if she doesn't feel the same? What if I can't make her happy?_ If he didn't want to hurt Augusta, then instead of being worried about a courtship not panning out, he realized that he shouldn't have kept up their banter and rendezvous for so long; but more than anything, he was terrified that he would fall short of her expectations, or else leave her heartbroken. And he did adore her, that he couldn't deny.

With a self-satisfied smirk at his friend, Ames winked like he knew he had struck a nerve but didn’t care because he’d accomplished his goal. “Let’s go. The party is going to be in full swing if we don’t hurry, and I know how you love watching Augusta make her entrance.”

* * *

 

Goodnight had no doubt that Ames had Mathilde working for him. Even if Augusta was friends with the Verret twins, she seemed to end up with them an awful lot more than she did with anyone else, and Mathilde, never too far from Ames, who was in turn never too far from Goodnight, toted Augusta around as if to simply dangle her in Goodnight's face to tempt him to do something.

When the familiar red Evercreech carriage pulled to the front steps, Goodnight hopped in front of Sacha Castex to help down Augusta. He was surprised to find Hattie Verret step down first, then Mathilde, who was quickly snatched by Ames, and Salome before Augusta herself alighted slowly. Clutching her fan tightly in one hand, she offered him a shaky smile in thanks and held firm the hand he offered. She stumbled, missing the step, and Goodnight hurriedly made a grab to catch her. “Are you all right, Miss Augusta?”

Voice breathy, lower than usual, she covered her chest with her fan hand, blush creeping at her neck. “I…I'm fine except for making a spectacle of myself. I know it isn’t quite proper, but my companions and chaperone seem to be long gone, and I'd be eternally grateful, Mr. Robicheaux, if you’d lend me your arm.”

As Goodnight fulfilled her request, he noticed how tight of a grip she had instead of her usual light touch and—perhaps it was merely from the low light outside—the pallor of Augusta’s face, and when it didn't change after they entered, Goodnight pressed the back of his hand to her neck, cool and damp, not caring that he shouldn’t be touching her this way. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“Let's sit down, shall we?”

Goodnight chalked up her complexion to being peckish, and once he had her seated next to Hattie under the suspicious eye of Salome, he set off for the hor d’oeuvres and returned with a plate. “Have a bite to eat.”

“Oh, I don't think I could possibly…” Whatever she didn't think possible, she didn't say, but set down her fan, which had been feverishly flapping in front of her. Satisfied by her picking up a canapé, Goodnight reached for her dance card, asking how many she thought he could get away with, and put his name beside two, then turned to be entertained by Ames fussing with Mathilde. Even after dinner was served, they continued to bicker, though it was obvious they were doing so only for bickering's sake, over whether Minerva would manage a dance from Micah or who they thought would need the doctor called, as the Castexes had never made it through a ball without the doctor tending to someone.

It was when, from the corner of his eye, Goodnight saw Augusta pick up her fan again that he glanced at her plate. Since the DuBois party, he had learned that she was not a quick diner, but even now, she hadn’t eaten anything that had been put in front of her. Every canapé that he’d brought her was still on her plate, though a bite had been taken out of one, and her dinner plate had not even been touched. “Darlin’,” he ogled, “aren’t you going to eat?”

“No, I’m not hungry at the moment.” Back and forth she swatted her fan, back and forth at an alarming rate.

“I wish you would eat. You’re driving me mad with that fan, Aggie,” Hattie grumbled, trying in vain to smooth the hair that Augusta was blowing, and Salome finally turned her attention to her young charge and regarded her as she might regard an old, used handkerchief that had been discarded into her lap.

“I’m sorry, it’s just so...it’s so hot in here. I can’t catch my breath.”

Goodnight nabbed a glass of water from a passing waiter. “Have something to drink, Miss Augusta.”

She complied, and after she'd downed half the glass, though slow enough to be proper, she closed her fan. “Thank you, Mr. Robicheaux.”

He kept an eye on her for a few more moments, but she didn't reach for her fan again and appeared interested in the table conversation, so he thought nothing more of it. When the music started, earning a whoop from Ames, Goodnight helped Augusta to her feet and bowed in one smooth move before leading her to the floor.

Once they had taken their places on the floor and given their customary greetings, Goodnight swept Augusta close for the galop, her skirts billowing out in the first turn with the other ladies’ in a torrent like a cavalcade of flags, and a gush of pride swept over him that he could carry her colors in the opening number. He stood a little taller and offered her a smile, which was returned in the form of a sort of grimace. After they had taken a full turn and a half about the floor and her complexion had continually grayed, Goodnight leaned his lips close to her ear, knowing he wasn't supposed to speak while dancing.

“Miss Augusta, please tell me if you aren't feeling well. You're starting to worry me.”

“I don't—Mr. Robi—Mr. Robicheaux, I think I need to—sit down for a moment,” Augusta panted, blinking rapidly. “I’m so sorry...but I really—quite woozy.”

Immediately Goodnight’s stomach dropped, and he halted to the side of the floor while Augusta swayed in place. This time he didn’t quite question why she gripped his arm so hard as he led her off the floor and towards the wall, away from gossipy eyes. He had been aiming for their table, but Augusta latched onto the bar on the far wall halfway there. “Hold on a moment, Miss Augusta, I’ll pull up a chair right here,” he blurted fearfully. He let go of her for only a second, never taking his eyes away from her now ashen face.

“I—I can't b-breathe,” she gasped, and then Goodnight couldn’t move fast enough, feeling as though he were watching himself from outside his body, the air as thick as water. Augusta made as if to grab him, but instead she swayed once, face relaxing, and hit the wall behind her, bouncing off sharply, knees buckling. Goodnight shouted her name as her head met the side of the marble bar with a sharp crack, and she crumpled to the floor in a heap of fabric and a quickly growing pool of blood.

“Augusta,” he cried again, forgetting in his panic to add the formality. His heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest, and he cursed as his handkerchief stuck in his pocket. Without even caring that it was his best one, Goodnight pressed it to her forehead and instantly felt sick when the sticky liquid soaked through to his gloved fingers. “Augusta, can you hear me?”

No response. Cursing loudly, Goodnight patted her cheek gently and wished with all his might that a vial of smelling salts would appear in his pocket. His heart hammered, and more blood leaked from Augusta’s head. Goddamn it, he'd been trained to dance and talk suavely at balls, not what to do when a lady split open her head.

“Is she all right?” asked a low, cold voice behind him, and Goodnight whipped his head around to find Salome standing behind him, face devoid of any worry and as bored as ever. When she caught sight of her sister, she arched an eyebrow. “Oh. Heavens. This doesn’t help my reputation as a terrible chaperone, now does it? Mammy must have gotten her too tight again. Well, let’s get her out of here.”

Though she didn’t sound the least bit concerned, Salome waited for Goodnight to pick up Augusta before she scuttled along in front of them, pausing only to say something to a waiter as they passed. Even as she hurried, her hips swayed enticingly, skirts brushing side to side over the floor, and it was evident that Salome, with her head held haughtily high, knew exactly how beautiful she was. As she passed through the ballroom and hall, both gentlemen and ladies turned their gaze to her, but she didn't give any indication that she noticed, and it wasn't until they entered the parlor that she even acknowledged Goodnight again when she motioned to the divan.

“You need to leave, we’re going to have to get her unlaced.” With that, Salome had shooed him from the room just as the local doctor, Mrs. Castex, and the waiter to whom Salome had spoken bustled in, and the parlor door slid shut in his face.

A protest still on his lips, Goodnight looked up and down the hall, now emptying as the next song started, and took a seat on a stool across from the parlor door, swallowing his protest; though why he even thought he'd stay with her while they unlaced her corset was beyond him. He sat there for a few moments, catching sight of a few red droplets on the floor in front of him before he realized that he had been wringing his soiled handkerchief unconsciously. Glove damp, his hand too was now coated in a thick, sticky layer of poor Miss Augusta’s blood.

“There he is,” Mathilde cried, popping into the hall, while Ames shouted, “Goody!”

Mathilde’s eyes widened at his gloves, and Ames said, “Jesus, Goody, Hattie told us she saw you carrying a bloodied Augusta. What happened?”

“Augusta, she…she fainted, conked her head on the bar, poor thing.”

Mathilde gasped, covering her mouth with her hand as her eyes filled with tears. Ames whistled and clapped Goodnight on the shoulder. “Don't worry, Goody, she’ll be ok.”

“There was so much blood,” Goodnight murmured and shut his eyes. The crack of her head hitting the bar echoed in his mind, and even with his eyes closed, he could see her lying in a pool of blood. “I—I let her go. She obviously couldn't stand, but I let her go. I was trying to get her a chair. I shouldn't have even been dancing with her, I should have known something was wrong, she'd been funny all night.”

“Goodnight Robicheaux, you stop that,” Mathilde scolded sharply, hands on her hips, and she bent down until she was level with him, taking his chin in her hand and making him look her in the eye. “Now she told us on the way here that her mammy had laced her corset too tight. She just fainted and hit her head, she'll be fine. Besides, what…well, it’s a good thing the galop was first, or she would have gone the whole night being laced too lightly. And just think, Ames and I were both wrong about who the doctor would be called for!”

“Oh boy, Mattie, do we need to work on your bedside manner. Don't blame yourself, Goody," Ames said with another pat. “This isn't your fault. Remember that time when we were nine and you fell out of that tree? Your head bled and bled, and you were just fine, even though Mama said she'd never seen so much blood.”

But the blood making his fingers stick together made him think differently. They hadn't heard the smack on her way down. They hadn't seen the way she had fallen, how she had crumpled to the floor, how she had lain in a pool of her own blood because he hadn't kept a hold on her and how heavy she had felt in his arms. Slipping from Mathilde’s grip, Goodnight leaned over and pressed his palms into his eyes, hoping that it would rid him of the sight he’d witnessed. 

The couple waited outside the parlor with him for another two songs before the door opened, and the doctor came out, wiping his hands on a rag. Immediately, Goodnight rose to his feet. “How is she?” he asked softly, impressed that his voice had even worked.

“Go see for yourself, if Mrs. Saucier is _agreeable_ ,” he said, and went to rejoin the party. Mathilde pulled Goodnight to her by his vest and rubbed her handkerchief over his eyes where his soiled gloves had left a stain, and once she had him acceptable, she held out her hands for his gloves. It was only when Ames pushed him that Goodnight found the strength to move.

When he finally entered the room, Goodnight found Augusta lying on the divan, skin still wan, her head, wrapped in a stark white bandage, flopping to the side awkwardly, and it took all his restraint not to take her hands and sink to his knees at her side. Instead, he brushed back a lock of her hair from her eye and watched as her they fluttered halfway open. “How are you feeling, Miss Augusta,” he asked as he pulled up a chair.

“Oh,” she muddled out, “stars above, my head is positively throbbing, and I've made an absolute fool of myself, but if you just let me lie here, I'll be right as rain in a few moments.”

“You haven't made a fool of yourself. I doubt even half the party realized what happened. But you did take quite the tumble. I was worried you’d done something more serious than just knocking yourself silly.”

“I don't remember that, but I'll take your word for it. The pounding in my head makes me think you're telling the truth.”

Again Goodnight found himself pushing back some of her hair, even though Salome stood at the door to keep an eye on them. Propriety be damned, he'd nearly been scared senseless by Augusta’s tumble, and the poor girl looked so pitiful spread out on that divan with her pretty head covered in a bandage—and when he touched her, she tended to grin. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink, maybe?”

“You can call my carriage and see that the Verrets have a way home. I don't believe I'll be up for dancing tonight, and to be perfectly honest, I’d like to go home.”

“Don’t you worry, Miss Augusta, I’ll make the arrangements.” As he patted the cushion next to her in comfort, she gently covered his hand in her little one.

“Your sister is watching,” he whispered, but hoped to God, the Devil, and whatever else was listening that she wouldn’t remove her hand.

“I don’t care, and neither does she,” she huffed, voice trembling. “She's a terrible chaperone. My head is throbbing, I woke up in a new place to the sight of Dr. Auvin, I’m about to cry, and I want my mammy, even if she is the one who laced me up too tight. Please hold my hand, Goodnight.”

Chuckling lowly, he leaned back slightly to keep his lips away from her cheek, which was slowly filling with color. “You’ll be just fine, Miss Augusta, don’t you worry. Right as rain, remember?”

He noticed that she unsuccessfully tried to grin through her quivering lip, and he squeezed her hand, more than uncomfortable but unwilling to release her hand. “Oh, please don't cry. I couldn't bear to see your pretty face like that. Your eyes are much too lovely to be red and watering.”

And then he realized their position. He realized exactly how perfectly Augusta's fingers fit between his, and how he'd never known more fear in his life than when he'd carried her from the ballroom. Even while her head was covered in a bandage and she didn't have a lick of color to her face, he wondered how he'd ever thought she'd been anything other than absolutely beautiful.

Damn Ames.

Suddenly, in thought of what he was about to say, his heart raced and he thought for a moment that they would need to find him a divan. He licked his lips and lowered his voice so that Salome couldn't hear. “Miss Augusta. I’d like to ask your mama if she'd allow me to come calling on you. Formally, that is, not our rendezvous by the willow, but I want to be assured you wouldn't mind me doing so first.”

The trembling subsided as her lips pulled back into that enrapturing, partially-bashful smile. “I'd be delighted to receive you properly.”

He didn't know how long he sat there like a fool, but when he came to his senses, he said, “Excellent. I'll go call your carriage now.”

No matter that she was leaving and he wouldn't get a full dance, Goodnight couldn't suppress the spring in his step as he sent for the red Evercreech carriage. He returned to find her sitting up on the divan with her palms pressed to her eyes, and again Goodnight thought propriety be damned as he put a hand around her back to help her to the door. He all but picked her up to put her in the carriage, lifting her skirts with one hand and keeping the other in hers. Her chin in the air, Salome gave him another once-over down her nose, eyes narrowed, though thoughtfully instead of in anger.

“She fainted when she made her debut. I've always suspected that Mammy laces her too tightly when she knew it was an important event,” she said, steely as ever, and with a toss of her beautiful head, she followed her sister into the carriage.

Long after the party had finished, he laid awake in bed while his thoughts raced. Hadn’t she fit just perfectly she against his side? And the way she had beamed when she told him she'd be delighted, and…if he’d been anywhere close to sleep, he was suddenly wide awake. How had he missed that?

_Please hold my hand, Goodnight._

_Goodnight._

* * *

 

Goodnight somehow has even Billy rocking with laughter. “Jesus, I thought I'd killed her that night, Billy!”

Billy waves for Goodnight’s whiskey, and the older man takes a swig before he passes it over. He swipes a hand over his face, wiping off the laughter but leaving a smile. “I reckon if I had, Sal would have killed me for making her seem like an even worse chaperone. I couldn’t understand that night why Gus loved her so.

“We had a whole lot of money back then, didn’t want for anything. I told you we ran a sugar plantation; if we'd had only a third of the land we did, we could have profited more than the two biggest cotton plantations combined. Her mama didn’t put up any opposition when I asked to call on her. Likely her daddy would have handed her over on a silver platter right there if I'd asked.”

“Why didn't you?” Billy blows out a long, smooth stream of smoke, lazily, at ease, but that's Billy. Never hurried, but always purposeful. Goodnight thinks he would have made a good southern gentleman in that aspect, had he looked a little different.

“I didn't think that was what she wanted.” Goodnight holds out his hand, and without hesitating, Billy passes him the cigarette. “Something happened that night that made us change, but then again, near death experiences will do that to people. We lost the formalities, took to calling each other only by our given names, and by the end of the season, I was Goody to her, and she was Gus, though she swore up and down she hated it. But she was warmer after that night, and I felt...Goddamn, it was like I struck gold. I passed the test, and she opened up to me just a little bit more, just enough that I had to keep going.”

Goodnight closes his eyes as he breathes out the smoke. “I wrote sonnets after that night, Billy, more beautiful than even the Bard could have managed, about her eyes, the way she said my name—after all this time, I can still see how her lips formed around the word. There was one likening us to the stroke of midnight between Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, and I reckon sure hit that one on the head.” He takes another drag and hands it back to Billy. “They’re all gone now.”

Billy's been silently listening to Goodnight weave his yarn, just like always. Always he reminds Goodnight of a cat, his predatory gaze, reserving judgement until the very end. In a way, Goodnight wishes he would go ahead and stop him. He wishes Billy would finally tell him what a sorry good-for-nothing he is. But Billy never does, just lets Goodnight go on weaving, lets him go down every rabbit trail and burrow into every fox hole that he needs to. That’s just Billy, though, waiting through Goodnight’s moods.

They never do things in a hurry. With the patience of a saint, Billy eases through life at his own pace, slipping and sliding through time, while Goodnight wanders somewhere nearby, trying to keep up but knowing Billy won't get too far. Knowing he's the one who gets away. He used to stride, taking each day as it came, head held high. Now it's Billy who keeps his head up, and on his best days, Goodnight takes a glance to see what's going on.

Some days Billy reminds Goodnight of Salome, the way he watches so carefully but with a detached disinterest. How gracefully he moves, and with an air that he knows it too. The way he can silence a conversation, even amongst people he doesn’t know, with a single glance. The way he can look at you so disdainfully and then make a joke that tells you he considers you a friend.

“I would have done it right then, though—married her, that is. By the end of that season, goddamn, I was in love with her. But I didn’t. I waited a few weeks after we got home before I went calling on her. It was May by then, and Lord, Hell was breaking through the Earth’s crust, but I would have sat on the porch all day with Gus and her mama if I could have.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louisiana: May-December 1856  
> Billy: April 1877

From his place across the yard, Sam glanced up through his lashes, a movement that most people were unable to see and which he'd learned from years of careful practice. Mrs. Evercreech was looking between the fields and her daughter, mouth pressed together in a thin line as she debated what to do: fulfill the duty to her daughter and greet their caller, or fulfill her duty as a great lady and nurse the woman who needed help; she took a deep breath. “Augusta, I will only be a moment. Mammy is right inside the parlor there, so don’t think about being bold. Sam,” she called to where he was splitting wood. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand as Mrs. Evercreech spoke in hushed tones, telling him to do nothing he hadn't already planned on.

“Remember, Augusta, you can never rebuild a reputation,” she said sternly, stepping into the wagon.

She had no sooner vanished from sight than a large chestnut horse trotted down the lane and up to the porch. In one graceful motion, the man who must have been Goodnight Robicheaux had slipped from his horse and swept the hat from his head, bending over in a small bow while he took a hand and pressed it to his lips. “Miss Augusta Evercreech, _ma chèri_ , it is an honor to be received.”

“There’s no need for theatrics, Goody,” Miss Augusta said softly as her neck flushed, lips pressed together in an excited but bashful smile.

“I’m not being theatrical, darlin’. I’m genuinely grateful that I was allowed this opportunity.” With a smile of his own, he kissed her hand again.

Sam read that Miss Augusta’s eyes told him to stop, but the smirk on her lips said she was pleased. She slowly pulled back her hand and motioned towards him formally. “Mr. Robicheaux, this is my friend Sam.”

“So this is the friend that I have heard so much about. How do you do, Sam?” With his hand extended, Goodnight crossed the yard in a few long, loping strides. “Goodnight Robicheaux is the name.”

Casting a glance at Miss Augusta for approval, Sam cautiously shook Goodnight’s hand, taken back that a white man of such status would ever offer to shake hands. Even among the slaves, the name Robicheaux carried weight; the family was known for giving out substantial Christmas gifts and a massive party at the end of the work seasons. “Name’s Sam, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“Goodnight will suffice. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Any friend of Augusta’s is a friend of mine.”

Sam took in this man: elegant and confident, with wide shoulders that hinted he could have an imposing physique if he chose, carrying himself in a way that showed he was both proud of who he was and happy to just be alive. His eyes gleamed when he said Miss Augusta’s name, and Sam finally grinned and looked back to Miss Augusta, shaking his head. “You found yourself a suave beau, Miss Augusta.”

“Suave, am I? Well. I like you.” Augusta laughed while Goodnight, chest puffed up, crossed back to her and fixed himself on the porch steps, long legs splayed out in front of him, elbows propping himself up. Looking at him lounging on her porch, so debonair and relaxed, Sam could tell that she couldn't keep away a smile, and he was almost half-inclined to grin himself.

“Goody, you're too much sometimes.”

“I'm enough for you.” This man leaned towards Miss Augusta, eyes never leaving her face, continually giving her a look as if she had hung the moon and the stars and named them all, and Sam doubted he realized any of it. If Miss Augusta had asked him to take her to China at that very moment, Sam thought Mr. Goodnight wouldn't even hesitate. When Mrs. Evercreech returned from her nursing duty, he snapped to his feet, bowing low and flattering Mrs. Evercreech so much that she didn’t know what to do besides wave him back down.

And Miss Augusta, she was glowing. She hung on to his every pretty word, lips perpetually turned up at the corners, and Sam was happy. He'd seen her sisters sit on the porch with beaux before, never with an expression like the one on Miss Augusta's face, and Sam felt a bittersweet happiness that her time had finally come.

And then he felt old.

* * *

That evening after dinner, Miss Augusta sat at the table in Mammy’s cabin while Sam polished shoes, both taking comfort in each other’s quiet presence. Sam knew why she was there, but he'd been enjoying stringing her along, talking about Miss Anastasie's new baby, how Mammy had prepared the pie for dinner, which he'd received a stolen piece of from Miss Augusta. He knew Miss Augusta was ready to explode with anticipation. Hiding his smirk, he said offhandedly, “That's some beau you've got, Miss Augusta.”

“What did you think,” Miss Augusta asked, instantly perking up, and Sam chuckled to himself. The three other sisters, though older than him, had always served to be a pain in his neck. Miss Anastasie had _opinions_ on everything and had never been satisfied with anything that he’d done. Nine times Miss Salome had been mean as a snake, but on the tenth time she’d been perfectly sweet, and he could still never tell if it was the ninth or tenth time; and Miss Oceane—well, everyone had celebrated her wedding with what an outsider would probably consider a little too much fervor. But then came Miss Augusta, forever overlooked with Miss Oceane’s bullying and theatrics, just as quiet and sweet as she could be. He’d found a secret friend in Miss Augusta, white skin and all.

“Oh, Miss Augusta, you know it don't matter what I think.”

“It does too, Sam. You know that I care.”

Sam considered telling her what he’d observed that afternoon, but he wanted her to come to those conclusions on her own. Instead, he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. “Well, I think he's awfully moony,” Sam teased, only to watch Miss Augusta blush. He chuckled and reached for another boot. “You just be careful, Miss Augusta. Even if you're fond of each other, you've still got a reputation.”

“Oh, I know, I know. We’re perfectly good.”

 _I’m being good._ He’d heard that phrase before, once when she’d disappeared for the day to “read” and had come back with little progress made in the only book she’d taken with her. Brow furrowed, Sam’s head jerked up as he faced her, and only then did she seem to realize what she had said. Her mouth dropped into an ‘o,’ and she shook her head faintly, paling.

Eyes nearly popping out of her head, Augusta stammered, “I—I don’t...I—Sam. Don’t jump to any conclusions, now. You saw him today, and he’s a perfect gentleman.”

After knowing her for her whole life, and as wise and level as she could be, it was easy for him to forget her naivety. Now he sorely wished she hadn’t said anything at all and that he hadn’t made a connection. The last thing he needed was for something to go wrong and people to find out that he had known something was up. “Miss Augusta…” he groaned.

“Sam, you listen to me. Now, whatever you’re thinking isn’t true.”

“Miss Augusta, you’re going to get me in trouble. Just imagine what would happen if my ma found out that I knew.”

“She’s not going to find out because there’s nothing to find out,” Miss Augusta insisted with a determined look that reminded him too much of Miss Salome, brows coming together and chin raising just so. She swallowed hard. “Sam, when have I ever let you get in trouble?”

A chuckle escaped his lips before he could catch it. “Don’t play that card, Miss Augusta.”

In response, Miss Augusta hummed. Sam just smirked, then shook his head with another chuckle. As much as it irritated him to acknowledge it at the moment, she was right; Sam kept his head low for the most part, but if there was ever the slightest indication that he was about to be in trouble, Miss Augusta was always there to wipe away any blame. “Do you hope he marries you?”

“Oh, I think any girl with enough sense to walk straight would hope that he married them,” she said wistfully, and when she caught herself, her neck was set aflame. Sam chuckled again, but suddenly solemn, she placed her hand on his arm. “Sam, promise me something.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“No matter who I marry, whether it’s Goodnight Robicheaux or…or Josiah Miller, for all that we know, you’ll come with me.”

Sam sat back in shock. He blinked once before he said, “Miss Augusta, you know I can’t promise you that, and even if I could, I have family here.”

“We’ll bring them too. It’ll be you, me, Mammy, and Ruth. That’s the way it’s always been…well, it’s been like that for about five years with Ruth, but it’s always been you, me, and Mammy. I couldn’t imagine going anywhere without y’all.” They sat there in silence for a moment before Augusta asked, “Sam, what do you want?”

He snorted in amused disbelief. “Where is this coming from?”

“Well, I’m sitting here asking you to come with me, but maybe you don’t want to, so what is it that you want?”

Sam rubbed at a place on Mrs. Evercreech’s boot that he’d already done, not wanting to see her face when he said, “I want to get on my own horse and ride wherever I please.”

From the corner of his eye, he could just see her nod ever so slightly, but Miss Augusta didn’t say anything more to him for the rest of the evening, which was what he’d been afraid of; he was grateful for all that she’d done for his family, but he’d be lying if he said he wanted to work on a plantation until the day he died. They sat in silence until the rest of his family came in, at which point his sister hopped right into the chair next to Miss Augusta, who pulled out a child’s reader and paper and scooted her chair closer.

Eventually Sam finished with his polishing and leaned back to watch his sister’s lesson, stretching his arms overhead after a long day. Perhaps he’d been wrong to say it, but he’d grown up with Miss Augusta, and he’d always been able to speak with her. She’d been right when she’d said it had always at least been the three of them, and if she wanted him to come with her when she left, then what right did he have to say no? Given his choice, though, he would take his family and leave for somewhere new, someplace he could do as he pleased without anyone to answer to.

Not that he wouldn’t miss his friend Miss Augusta.

* * *

“Sam…” Augusta began thoughtfully. “I’ve been told his name was the first word I said. He’s about three years older than you, so he grew up right between Oceane and me, and you know how Oceane is. Between Oceane and Ana, and Sal getting fed up with them both, our house used to be so loud, and Sam wasn’t. I liked how quiet he was. He was easy to smile, and when my only other option for a friend was Sal, who was nearly ten years older, we allied ourselves. I taught him to read and everything.”

“That explains how he knew to call me suave. You better be careful though, lot of people won't like you doing that.”

“Well, it's only improper if I get caught, I suppose, and he's real careful.”

“That must be your motto.” _Only improper if they got caught._ Despite the past few months of courting, they hadn't stopped meeting under the willow. Goodnight now traced circles over Augusta’s palm as he interviewed her. “Tell me, Gus—”

“I told you not to call me that.” That was her answer every time he said it, and every time her tone told him that she didn’t quite mind.

“—exactly why do you get along with Salome so well when she’s so ornery?” If it meant he could listen to her, Goodnight would be content to lie next to her and ask every question under the sun about her family. He loved the way she tilted her head side to side as she spoke, the way her lips moved as she formed the words.

When Augusta laughed, she tipped back her head and cocked it to the side ever so slightly. “Oh, Sal may be ornery, but she’s much more sensible. She thinks Oceane and Ana are downright stupid, they drive her mad. And she’s really not so bad. She may seem...cold, but she really isn’t. I can count on her.”

“Sans chaperoning responsibly.”

“You're telling me. Look at this, I have a scar!” Augusta brushed back her hair to reveal a long, thin white slash across her temple, and for the first time, Goodnight realized she had kept her hair over it for the entirety of the season.

“You sure do.” Sitting up, he swiped a finger down the raised skin, a reminder of how he’d let her go, how she had crashed to the floor because he hadn’t held on, that he hadn’t helped her like she had needed. His face contorted involuntarily. “Gus, I'm real sorry about that.”

“Oh, Goody you can't blame yourself. You were the only one who tried to help me. This was Mammy’s doing, and I reckon she's real proud of it, now that you're calling on me and everything. But we were talking about Sal. She's better than Ana or Oceane at chaperoning, that’s for sure. She may not say anything, but she keeps an eye out.”

His face must have told her that he disagreed, that he disagreed very much and it was _his_ fault, because her lovely green eyes softened into an expression that he hadn’t seen before. Before he fully realized what she was doing, Augusta had raised her little hand and was skimming it down his own temple, leaving a burning hot trail in its wake no matter how cold her hand was, and his breath hitched at the contact. She left her hand on his cheek, running her thumb over the bone. Voice low enough that he leaned in closer, she whispered, “Goody, sweetheart, this isn’t your fault. Imagine the scene I would have caused on the dancefloor—better that you got me to the side than I dropped there in the center of the room. And I’m right as rain now, just like I said I’d be.”

When she still didn’t take him to be convinced, she continued, “Goody, I don’t blame you at all. In fact, you’re the person I blame the least. I mean, I’d told the twins and Sal that I was too tight, but they didn’t care a bit.”

It had been a year since he’d first spoken with Ames. He’d asked if Goodnight loved her, and Goodnight had answered that he didn’t know her enough to say. By now he knew that she loved the color purple. She drank her tea with cream and two cubes of sugar, and though she’d never admit it out loud, she didn’t think she was as pretty as her sisters, but Goodnight thought they couldn’t compare; he still longed to sink his fingers through the mane of black curls that was her hair. And he’d get there eventually. He didn’t know everything about her, but he knew that he loved her and he’d find out everything as soon as he could.

The words bloomed in his throat but caught on his lips, and when he couldn’t get them out at first, he swallowed them and tried to find a different way. He needed the moment to be perfect, for his expression to come out in a way like none other, beautiful enough to fit his feelings and her, lasting enough that she’d remember it no matter how many times she read similar declarations. She had to understand there was something above ardently and souls being made from the same thing, and she had long since bewitched him. But nothing suitable came to mind, and he could not force the moment.

Instead, he resumed tracing circles on her palm. How fortunate was he that she had decided to hop, hop, hop right across the creek that day? But as much as he loved being able to trace circles on her palm, he sorely wished he could hold something more than her hand.

“That tickles,” she said, and jerked away her hand when he lightened his stroke.

“I won’t do it again,” he told her, and held out his own hand for hers again.

When Augusta hummed—hummed, not giggled—closed mouth, her green eyes crinkling, Goodnight wondered if people were more intoxicating than alcohol. “I know you will, though.”

“Only because it makes you smile.”

With a blush, Augusta rolled her eyes. “You’re too much, Goody.”

But she gave him back her hand.

* * *

Goodnight is not a stupid man by any means, and he supposes that’s what he hates so much about retrospect: exactly how stupid it makes him feel. When he looks back, he wonders how he could have been so blind to the events that unfolded, how he could have ever imagined that things would pan out differently. Where his vision had once been clouded by a dreamy mist, he can see so clearly now how foolish he had been. Had he been able to see clearly then—oh, how things would have been different.

“Have you ever noticed how hard it can be to tell the most important people that you love them?” Billy doesn’t answer the question. “Right now, I could go downstairs and whisper it into the barmaid’s ear sweetly enough to make her swoon, but when I was there underneath the willow with Augusta, and she had those eyes turned up to me, she may as well have been stuffing my mouth with her family’s cotton.”

He supposes it had been so hard for him to tell her because he had wanted perfection. He had wanted it to be beautiful because she was beautiful and had read so many beautiful proclamations, and no matter what he came up with, it hadn’t felt like it was enough. Had he been able to see clearly then, he wouldn’t have hesitated to simply blurt it out, perfection be damned. He knows now that sometimes thoughtfulness is more eloquent than perfection.

* * *

A blade of grass tucked between his lips, Ames leaned his head back in Mathilde’s lap with a deep breath, closing his eyes against her chatter. Mathilde paid him no mind and continued gossiping about the people who were mere feet away. Augusta kept trying to hush her out of the fear that someone would overhear, though she was laughing too much to make any progress with that task, and Goodnight watched on with fond amusement.

“Oh, just look at them,” Mathilde prattled on, swatting away Augusta’s hand. “I never thought she’d do it, but would you look at them. I guarantee you that he’ll marry her. Who would have thought, Micah and Minnie? Oh, the vazey little ratbag.”

With another great sigh, Ames, eyes still closed, reached up and patted her lips. “Shh, Mattie. I swear you talk more than Goody sometimes.”

“I would like to point out that I have not said a single word until this moment,” Goodnight huffed, feigning hurt. “Silent as the grave, I’ve been.”

Ames cracked an eye at him. “Feeling all right?”

“Right as rain,” Goodnight conceded, winking at Augusta when she caught his eye. She settled back closer to him, Mathilde now scowling across the lawn at her younger sister.

The four were relaxed on Augusta’s blanket, under the shade of a tree outside the church. Ames looked resigned to sleep the day away on Mathilde’s lap, not caring that they were unmarried and in public, but Mathilde, with too much energy, would never let him do such a thing when there was so much going on. There were people to watch, food to eat, games to play, and Goodnight knew it was only a matter of minutes before she would be dragging him behind her as they found some sort of mischief. Despite Mathilde’s palpable energy, Augusta seemed to be more inclined to follow Ames’s suit, basking in the warm fall day and the picnic around them, and Goodnight fed off her, soaking in her tranquility as he edged himself closer.

As Mathilde resumed her gossiping, Ames heaved himself to his feet, attempting a look of frustration but falling short with adoration in his eyes. “Come on, you grump. Maybe some food will quiet you down.”

“They make me happy. Even when they bicker, it’s obvious they love each other,” Augusta said when they were far enough away. She turned her round face up to him, and Goodnight reflexively pushed her curls away from her lovely eyes if only to be able to touch her. Once again, he tried to force the words, but they stuck somewhere inside him.

The corners of Augusta’s mouth twitched like she knew what he was trying to do, and she scooted over so that their shoulders brushed, looking away from him to the crowd. Goodnight followed her gaze past the church until his eyes landed on a group of children running around each other. “See the little girl with the blue pinafore? Aubergine curls and the big cheeks? That’s my niece, Posie, Salome’s daughter. She’s two. Isn’t she precious?”

“Well, I’d say that depends on whether she takes after Salome or Dorian,” Goodnight said, and Augusta hummed in amusement next to him. He watched as the little girl in question tottered after the bigger children, half buried in the knee-high grass, not keeping up very well but not seeming to mind one bit, smiling away no matter how far they got. “I’m going to assume Dorian.”

He knew Augusta was nodding more than he saw it. She surprised him by saying, “Tell me about your family, Goody. We always talk about mine.”

Goodnight inhaled deeply as he thought about what to say. “Well, there’s only Valentine and me. She’s a bit of a character, wants to be privy to every secret in New Orleans, and she knows she’s as magnificent at the piano as she is beautiful. She ferocious as a lion while looking as docile as a housecat. A Valkyrie with the face of Venus. She thinks she’s the center of the universe, not that she’d ever let anyone other than us know it.”

“But you love her anyway,” Augusta added, to which Goodnight nodded, searching for his family in the crowd. His father had surprisingly roused himself from bed earlier that morning and insisted that he was well enough to attend the annual picnic. When he couldn’t find them easily, he turned his attention to Augusta instead.

“And my mama may have given Val her looks, but she did not give her the same personality. Val does as she pleases, but Mama’s...regal. She’s gracious and graceful, everything a woman is supposed to be. Very proper, so if she found out about our Wednesdays, I’d likely be beheaded. Her daddy died fighting in Texas, and she’s extremely proud of that. And my daddy...well, you know my daddy.”

Augusta shook her head, curls dancing and a smile spreading across those enticing lips; reading about kisses did not suffice when presented a beautiful woman. “I adore your father, Goody. He’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met. One time—do you want to know a secret, Goody?”

“Darlin’, I want to know all of your secrets.”

“Well, Oceane used to go through these cycles where she decided I was too fat. One time when I was about eight, we were here at the church picnic, and Mrs. Rubadeau had made her massive cookies—the kind Micah’s eating now—but when I tried to take one, Oceane threw a fit, saying she couldn’t have a fat sister. Embarrassed the living daylights out of me, she did. But your father saw, and when she’d gone away, he came over to me with four of those cookies in his hand and said he always ate two when no one was looking. He sat there and ate them with me, and when we’d finished, he told me life was too short not to have sweets. Then he said my dress was the perfect shade of green to go with my eyes, and that was that, he was on his way elsewhere.”

It was just the sort of thing his father would do. Goodnight could imagine Maxence seeing a little, round-cheeked Augusta scowling away at her redheaded sister, likely thinking sharp thoughts that she wouldn't say aloud, and looking longingly at Mrs. Rubadeau’s cookies; of course he would have taken pity on her. “That sounds like my daddy, all right. He doesn’t believe in frowning and can’t stand to see people upset, least of all ladies and children, and you fit both those categories.”

“And you love him very much.” Goodnight nodded slowly, impressed with how Augusta could understand what he was saying just by reading his face and hearing his tone. She was quiet for a moment, searching his face for the words he wasn’t saying. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

For a moment, he remembered the way Augusta had clutched his hand while she’d lain on the divan at the Castex ball, asking him to provide her some sort of relief and support. He remembered the way her lip had trembled, and he wished he could be granted that same option to let her comfort him as his lip trembled. “My daddy…he isn’t well.”

Like the day at the creek, her face softened, and he hoped to God that she would touch his cheek like the past time, no matter how inappropriate it was and who could be watching. But she kept her hands to herself, though her eyes, warm and—and something he couldn’t quite place—danced over his face in a way more comforting than he ever would have imagined.

“Goody,” she whispered, achingly low and soft, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

A grin ghosting over his lips, Goodnight gingerly took her fingertips in his to bring them to his lips, and if he wasn’t mistaken, Augusta leaned towards him, tempting him to do something he would most likely regret. Probably. At least, he’d regret it under the circumstances.

“Oh, you’ll never guess what just happened! We were—whoo, I’m so sorry! Mattie, you’re interrupting,” Mathilde cried, scolding herself, returning in a flurry with Ames on her heels, though she nearly wheeled around on him when she realized the position Goodnight and Augusta were in.

“You weren’t interrupting anything, Mathilde,” Goodnight insisted, dropping Augusta’s hands as she collected herself. Part of him was relieved that Mathilde had stopped him from doing anything foolish, while the other part said, _To Hell with it, Goodnight, Old Time is still a-flying._

Mathilde exchanged a glance, one Goodnight couldn’t decipher, with Ames, who licked the remains of whatever he’d been eating off his fingers, smiling away gleefully, the goddamn cherubim. When he’d cleaned himself sufficiently, he said, as though nothing had happened, “Let’s play a game. _Petanque_ is already claimed, but we haven’t had our annual horseshoe match, Goody, and I’ll bet my money that I have the better teammate—no offense, Augusta.”

“Ames, you couldn’t win horseshoes if your opponent was blind,” Goodnight teased, forgetting all the woe about his father and the words he just couldn’t say to Augusta. He stood, brushing off his pants, and held his hand out to Augusta. “Come along, Gus. I have yet to lose a game of horseshoes to Ames, and he seems to have forgotten that.”

With a half-hearted wave, Augusta tried to shake him off. “Oh, no, you don’t want me on your team—”

“There’s no one else I’d rather have.” When she hesitated, Goodnight pulled a long face. “Darlin’, don’t make me ask Josiah Miller. It’s not fair for me to have to ask him when I have someone much more beautiful available.”

Rolling her eyes, Augusta took a deep breath and held out her hands for him to help her to her feet, and the pair made their way across the lawn to where Ames was already attempting to prepare the court while he fussed with Mathilde over where she was supposed to stand.

* * *

“May I kiss you?”

Over the cheering of the crowd, Goodnight didn't think Augusta had heard him, the way she kept clapping and laughing, her head tipped back and to the side just so, nearly letting the crown of orange blossoms slip off, but eventually her eyes rolled up to his, glittering gleefully. “Kiss me? Oh, what a scandal! Only if I'm not looking.”

Again she laughed, filled with the merriment of the day, obviously not thinking he was serious, as nothing about the day except for the vows had been. When Ames and Mathilde passed by, Augusta brushed her friend’s gloved fingers, and the other girl embraced her excitedly before she kept going down the line of guests. It was then, while Augusta was watching the couple leave, that Goodnight bent down and pressed his lips to her cheek, quick as a flash but long enough that she realized what he was doing.

Already buggy eyes nearly popping from her face, Augusta's head whipped around so fast that if he hadn't moved she he did, they would have collided. “Goodnight!” she gasped, neck on fire, and her hands flew up to cover it.

Goodnight’s lips quivered until the deep, mirthy laughed broke through, and when Augusta finally dropped her hands, he tangled his fingers in hers. No one was watching them anyway.

Perhaps he'd had too much to drink as well. 

* * *

 

“Ames and Mathilde got married at the end of that September.” _Marry in September’s shrine, your living will be rich and fine._ The wedding had been the biggest affair outside of Mardi Gras, with guests coming from five different parishes for what had turned out to be a perfect fall day. A pair of fair-haired seraphims, the bride and groom had spent the entire morning laughing away and likely wouldn't have cared how the ceremony went so long as there was a party to follow. “Life was one big laugh for Ames, and I reckon he thought he’d get that with Mattie.”

“Did he?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Goodnight scoffs, and even Billy smiles. “Hell yeah. Mattie was just a sillier, louder version of Ames. Marriage wasn’t going to make either one of them calm down, and they both knew it. Sure, they did their matrimonial duties, but if there was a chance to play, they didn't think twice about taking it.

“I was the best man, Gus was a bridesmaid. I’d told Ames that I wouldn’t monopolize her at socials, but that day, I didn’t care. That day, the drinks kept flowing, and the music kept playing, and I couldn’t let her go. We danced every single dance together, so ungracefully and wildly, though I’m not sure many people realized, or at least cared, after so many drinks. The breakfast was supposed to end at noon, but there wasn’t a single person who left until a good four hours after then.

“When they returned from their honeymoon in October, I visited Ames to welcome him home, as was customary, and he told me Mattie, doing her duty as the new Mrs. Rubadeau, had already invited Augusta over for tea that Friday. That was my chance. I asked Ames to make sure she lingered for a few hours, just to give me enough time. Friday I rode over to Saltmore Hall and met with her parents.”

* * *

The wax of the candle dripped dangerously close to its stand. Keeping the candle in his sight, Goodnight wiped his hands on his pants and willed the candle to grow or… _unmelt_. When it didn’t, he licked his lips and took a deep breath.

“Augusta,” Goodnight said as he stood to leave. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Mrs. Evercreech, familiar with his plan, and she made herself scarce. He resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his palms in case it gave away how nervous he was. Unaware he was even doing so, he twisted the brim of his hat in his hands and then cursed himself for doing so. _Goddamn, you look like a fool,_ he internally chided, stopping himself from running out the door. Why was this such a big deal? If he could make grand speeches about how lovely the clouds were, he could surely ask her a simple question.

While Goodnight struggled to get a hold of himself, Augusta merely remained in her seat, gazing up at him with such big, guileless eyes. He licked his lips again. “Miss Augusta, you know that my family always throws a ball on Fat Tuesday, and I—well, I’d hoped—that maybe—maybe, that is, if you’d like—you’d allow me the honor of escorting you.”

Augusta’s face lit up; her lips broke into a smile, and she released a little puff of air as a laugh. “You want to escort me to the ball?”

Goodnight tried to shake his head. “If you'd like.”

Before he had time to blink, Augusta was out of her seat with a Verret-like squeal and waving hands. “Oh, Goodnight! To the Fat Tuesday ball? Oh, stars! What an honor!”

They were both beaming, both laughing, when suddenly Goodnight realized with no idea how they'd gotten there that he had Augusta's hands in his, and she was very close, with her beautiful smiling face upturned toward him. They were inches apart. He only had to move just so, just had to tip his forehead to hers, if he wanted to taste those red lips. He could do it so quickly she wouldn't have time to think. He'd wanted to know what she was like for so long now, and here she was—

When her mouth moved, Goodnight realized he'd been staring at her lips. He met her gaze, which flicked back and forth between his own lips and eyes. His heart pounded. Was it honorable? She was giving him the chance, but would it be right? His intentions were good, and he'd been courting her for months now.

“May I…” he began to ask but never completed the sentence, too enthralled with Augusta’s curls bouncing up and down so close to him, her lips slightly parted.

Without realizing what he was doing, Goodnight found himself closing the distance between them, placing a hand on her cheek, drawing her closer with his other arm, and watching as Augusta’s eyes faded closed. And then he felt her beneath him, tasted sugar and the tea they’d been drinking. She was so unfamiliar and soft that he was afraid he'd break her if he did anything more, but he wanted to so badly.

But he pulled away to find her eyes still closed and her lips parted from where his had been, and he had the urge to kiss her again, if only to keep that look, blissful and giddy, on her face. Slowly he removed his hand from her face, letting his thumb brush over her soft, blushing cheek. “I have to go. Before I get you in trouble.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way longer than I intended it to be, but I never felt like there was a good place to cut it in half.
> 
> Billy: April 1877  
> Augusta: End of March-April 7, 1857

Hattie and Mathilde moved like a train; they could be heard before they were seen.

“Augusta,” they called, hanging out the window as the Rubadeau carriage rocked down the busy street. “Augusta, oh Augusta!”

Genuinely worried, Augusta hurried out to the porch when she heard them, and Sam paused with his brush in the air where he was adding a fresh coat of paint to the fence. When the carriage pulled up, the girls hardly waited for the driver to fully stop before they were making their exits unassisted. They lifted their skirts to run to Augusta, who was starting to come off the porch to them. “My dears, whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, Aggie, we have news to tell you!” Hattie panted, while Mathilde waved Augusta away, saying, “No, no, go back up there. It's a secret, and you're going to need to sit down.”

Augusta stopped in her tracks. The twins were privy to all sorts of secrets, but never any that caused them to run about the town amok; then again, now that Mathilde was married, they didn’t need any supervision. “Sit down?”

Each sister took one of Augusta’s arms and dragged her inside to the parlor, ignoring Mammy and little Ruth as they passed by. They placed her on the footstool and sat down across from her on the settee.

Augusta felt her heart racing. What news would they have like this, that would cause them to race down across town in such a hurry? What news would she need to sit down to hear? She had to remind herself that the twins couldn’t do anything in a calm manner. Her heart raced, but the sisters merely exchanged looks with their lips pursed. She took a shuddering breath. “Hattie, Mattie, what…what is going on, pray tell?”

“You'll never guess what we saw,” Mathilde began with a toss of her blonde head, trying in vain to catch her breath.

“We were just now at Violette’s getting lunch. As we were leaving the restaurant, we just happened to look across the street. And you know what is across the street from Violette’s,” Hattie continued.

“ _Adler’s_ ,” Mathilde breathed, in case Augusta did not know what was across the street from Violette’s.

“Lo and behold, guess who was walking in.”

Augusta’s brow furrowed. Adler’s? That was a jeweler, what could Hattie and Mathilde possible have to do with Adler’s, unless Ames already been sent for a reconciliation gift? She opened her mouth but didn't know exactly what to say and closed it again.

Mathilde squealed and pressed her handkerchief to her beaming lips while Hattie waved hers wildly. “Goodnight Robicheaux!” Mathilde gasped, taking the handkerchief away from her lips only long enough to get out the words, and Hattie squealed too, nearly bouncing herself off the settee.

Augusta’s heart stopped beating altogether, and her mouth dropped open. This had nothing to do with the twins.

 _Goodnight_.

Goodnight was going to marry her.

She had imagined he would, after everything they'd done, all the dances and escorts and times he'd come calling; honorable Goodnight Robicheaux trying so hard to keep himself in check while he played with her fingers and listened with rapt attention to every word she said—she had noticed, after all, no matter how indifferent he'd tried to remain, knowing Goodnight was a man of too much passion to ever be described as stoical. She had imagined he would propose, but now that she was faced with the possibility, she didn't know what to make of it.

“And we all know you're the only girl he has any sort of eyes for,” Hattie laughed. She snatched up Augusta's hands as she bounced in her seat. “We have to be bridesmaids.”

“We do, we absolutely have to. Your sisters are already married and so old, and we told you this first. I don’t even care if I’m married, we can pretend like I’m not for the day!”

When she'd regained her breath, Augusta stammered. “I—I don't know what to say. My stars! He’s going to propose?”

“Don't act so surprised, we've all known this was coming,” Mathilde dismissed with another wave of her hand. “Of course you'll say yes, you have to. Then we’ll be just like sisters. You know how he and Ames are.”

“We suspect he’ll do it at the ball. He is escorting you, isn't he?

“Oh, yes, the ball makes perfect sense. He probably expects to have you so giddy and your head spinning so much that you'll stand no chance of saying no.”

A breathy laugh finally escaped Augusta’s lips. The twins had seen Goodnight at the jeweler’s, and he just had to marry her—he’d kissed her, after all! “Whatever shall I do, how do I act now that I know? Oh, I'll never be able to be around him, I'll be so frightened he’ll ask! What shall I _wear_?”

The sisters were again pulling Augusta before she knew what was happening. “Let's go now. Call your mammy.”

“Mammy,” Augusta yelled over her shoulder as they scurried up the stairs. “Mammy, Ruth, come quick!”

Never one to let anything happen to her baby Gussa, Mammy was right on the three girls’ heels, followed by Ruth. They came into Augusta’s bedroom to find the girls already strewing dresses across the floor. “Miss Gussa, what's going on?”

“Goodnight, Mammy, it's Goodnight. The twins say they saw him going into the jeweler’s. Oh, Mammy, what shall I wear? I mean—it must be for me, mustn't it? Unless...well, Val’s birthday is coming up, I believe, and he does love glittering things. He has emerald _and_ garnet cufflinks, remember?”

In that moment, Mammy’s chest swelled, and she positively beamed. “Whoo, Miss Gussa! Don’t you worry, child, we’ll find you something. Lord, to think my baby Gussa is getting married,” Mammy said, as she set about to helping Augusta out of her current dress. “My baby Gussa. We’ll make you look prettier than Miss Oceane, Lord knows you deserve to be.”

For the next hour, Mammy worked tirelessly to button and unbutton Augusta’s dresses, to pin her hair this way and that, while Hattie and Mathilde emptied the contents of Augusta’s wardrobe onto her bed.

"That just won’t do."

"No, no, this makes you look sickly, and no man wants a sickly wife. Why do you think Olive and Opal haven’t gotten anywhere?"

"Ugh, Augusta, what is this thing? Get rid of it!"

"That just won’t do. It just ain’t fitting for you or Mr. Robicheaux."

"Oh, Mammy—don’t try anymore, I am not fitting into this."

"Say, doesn’t Salome have a few dresses here still?  You and Salome are close in size."

"You best make sure she isn’t in there! It just won’t do for you to be wearing Miss Salome’s old rags, Miss Gussa."

"Stars above, Salome has terrible taste. How did that old hag ever manage to get married?"

"Here's one from Oceane’s—"

"Go put that thing back now."

"Augusta, if we had known this is all you had, we would have brought our things over, Minnie’s too. Oh, why couldn't he wait until we were home?"

Thirty dresses and the entirety of Augusta's wardrobe, as well as a few from Salome's, later, the three girls and Mammy gazed around the room forlornly, as if hoping that they had overlooked the right dress, but their eyes settled over one bad option after the other. Eventually  Augusta sighed and picked up one with a blue tartan pattern. “I suppose this will do. It wasn't half-bad.”

Before she could completely hold it up in front of the mirror, Hattie had snatched it away, a furious scowl on her lips, nose flaring. “You'll do no such thing. How could you even consider getting engaged in that? You're going to marry a _Robicheaux_! You have standards to meet.”

Augusta shrugged violently with a huff. “It was the only one halfway decent.” She turned towards her vanity mirror and looked in it, tucking away a curl that had escaped. She wasn’t Salome and certainly not Oceane, or even Anastasie, and she’d never once thought poorly of her wardrobe, but now...

“Miss Gussa,” Mammy said with an air of finality, and she moved behind Augusta to fix her mess of hair, smoothing each curl with practiced ease. “We’re in New Orleans. We’ll just go down the dress shop and see what they have, and if we can't find anything, we’ll go on over to look at fabric. Won't take that long to make. And you’ve always been prettier than Miss Oceane.”

When she'd finished, Augusta gave her a teary smile, and Mammy wiped at her eyes. “Don’t you cry, baby. You were always the good one, you can't start crying now. This is something to be happy about.”

With that, Augusta threw herself at Mammy and wrapped her arms around the older woman’s neck, thankful she’d been given such a wonderful nursemaid. Mammy’s own hands hovered uncertainly over Augusta’s back, obviously unsure if she should return the gesture or keep from touching her young white charge. Finally she patted Augusta on the back and pried her off. The girls followed Mammy out the door and down the stairs to the front door where the Rubadeau carriage was still waiting.

* * *

“Oh, Augusta! Try this one!” Hattie cried from deep within the store. She rushed from a back room, where Augusta suspected she should not have been, with a mass of black fabric in her hands. “Hurry, try this one. I suspect you’ll fit into it.”

Hattie pushed her behind a curtain and stripped her of her dress before Mammy could get a word in edgewise, and Augusta emerged wearing a ball gown of black satin with a white ruffled strip around the middle of the skirt, and a white ruffle for sleeves that were off her shoulders. Hattie brought her to stand in front on the full-length mirror by the window, and when Mammy saw, she immediately set about to trying to cover Augusta's bosom. Hattie shooed her out of the way, gushing, “Oh, Augusta. You look so lovely! Just look at how it goes with your hair.”

And for once, Augusta agreed that she made a striking picture in the mirror. She fiddled with her hair, moving it this way and that, turning her head different ways, not fully sure what to think of how the dress made her look; not even her favored green one made her feel so lovely. She liked how bright her eyes looked and how sharply they contrasted with her hair. She could put just the smallest amount of color on her lips when Mammy wasn't looking, nothing too bright, and let Mammy pin up the sides of her hair in that way that only she could do, and this dress would be just perfect of Fat Tuesday.

This must have been what it was like to be Oceane in every dress.

Augusta opened her mouth to speak when the bell over the shop door rang. “Damn it, Mathilde, I've been all over town looking for you today,” called Ames. Augusta turned towards the voice, but immediately whipped back around, face and neck bright red. Behind Ames stood Goodnight, whose gaze she had just managed to avoid; why couldn't either man ever go anywhere without a shadow? She stared at her feet, praying to anything that would hear that he would go away—he may as well have caught her in her shimmy.

“I'm sorry, but I've had urgent business to attend. We can discuss this later.” Mathilde was already trying to shove Ames out of the shop, and when he proved a worthy opponent, Hattie joined in the cause. “But now, you two need to leave.”

In the mirror, Augusta watched Ames throw his hands in the air and stalk out, muttering under his breath about his silly wife; but Goodnight lingered in the doorway, resisting Mathilde’s pushes, as if hoping she would finally catch his eye. When she did, the little blush that had left returned tenfold. Goodnight tipped his head to her. “Good day, Gus.”

Good day _._ Good day, _indeed_. Here she was fussing over herself, head in the clouds at her appearance, and he had nothing more to say to her than that, not even with all his flowery language and poetry. As soon as he'd gone, Augusta rushed to the curtain. “Help me get this off.”

“But Augusta—”

“I said help me get it off.” Her face burned for an entirely different reason. How dare Ames bring him here, letting him catch her admiring herself; and she was angry that Goodnight had merely nodded and hadn't paid any mind to how she had looked. For a moment she'd thought she fit in with her sisters, even Valentine, but Goodnight hadn't noticed.

Mammy began to unlace the dress without another word, and Augusta took the one that Mathilde now offered.

* * *

Augusta’s mammy, with eyes only for her little miss, had always been more suspicious of Goodnight than charmed by him, though she’d never been unfriendly. But when she answered the door a week before Fat Tuesday, he would have thought from her reaction that he’d been standing in the doorway without a stitch on him, not dressed in his best everyday suit and a new vest—boysenberry, Augusta’s favorite shade—and ladened with a massive box, complete with a bow tied by Valentine in a surprising sweet streak. When she’d composed herself, she asked tentatively, “You here to see Miss Gussa, Mr. Goodnight?”

“If it suits her fancy.” Preferably, it suited her fancy perfectly; if it didn’t, he didn’t think he’d be able to grow enough of another backbone to ever work up the nerve.

“Well, everyone’s home, but Miss Salome is sleeping.”

 _Imagine that,_ Goodnight thought, and he couldn’t help wondering if Salome ever slept in her own home, even though he knew good and well she only slept over when she’d chaperoned Augusta the night before. “When will she wake?”

Mammy just shook her head with a huff, and the way she gripped the door made him think she wasn’t going to let him in. “You oughta know by now Miss Salome’s going to do whatever she feels like doing, and Mr. Goodnight, you wake Miss Salome, and ain't nobody going to like that.”

Goodnight gave Mammy his lopsided smile, though she was completely right: waking Salome would most likely ruin his plan entirely. “I need to see her, Mammy. Mrs. Evercreech knew I was coming.”

Her dark eyes, perfectly intelligent and observant, flickered over his attire, his gift, and Goodnight watched Mammy as an expression of understanding passed over her face. Though she kept her suspicious eye trained on him, she held the door open wider. “You wait there in the parlor, Mr. Goodnight.”

Even though he had discussed it with Mr. and Mrs. Evercreech, Goodnight was partially surprised that Mammy had permitted him to see “her baby Gussa.” He nodded and strode into the parlor, glad he had something to do with his hands. Taking a deep breath, he placed the box on one of the side tables and listened to the muffled voices of Mammy and Augusta above him, breathing out slowly through his mouth. Eventually the soft patter of her footsteps came down the stairs.

“I wasn't expecting you today,” Augusta said, almost breathless, cheeks flushed and eyes happily wide. He didn't remember her being quite so becoming.

“I just…I needed to…well,” he stammered at first, losing any hold he'd had of himself the moment she'd glided through the door. “How are you?”

The words spilled out of his mouth before he could catch them, and he knew he should just walk out. _Goddamn, Goodnight, why not just talk about the weather,_ he scolded himself. For someone so good with words, he found it funny that he could never get them out when he needed them the most.

“I am very well, thank you. And yourself?” He knew that she knew he wasn't there to ask how her day had been, but she would humor him nonetheless as she perched on the edge of the couch, hands folded neatly in her lap, regarding him with that happy little expression. Her long hair loose and tempting about her shoulders, she wore a dress he'd never seen before, likely new, an icy shade of blue that contrasted sharply with her dark curls; he lost himself in thought for a moment about how badly he wanted to let his fingers tangle in them, those beautiful temptations.

And then Goodnight's mind strayed to a day that seemed in another lifetime entirely, when he'd sat across from her at the Magees’ barbecue and thought _approachable_ was what described her face the best. He disagreed now; now, her face could only be described as: _Run, you fool, before you ruin this._

She was too pretty for him to do this. She was too pretty, and his mouth was too dry, and his heart was beating too loudly.

There was what Goodnight would consider an uncomfortable pause while he tried to find even an ounce of courage inside him. He wanted her to close her eyes; he couldn't look into them and keep his nerves still at the same time. If he didn't piss himself, he'd consider the day a success. “Next…next week is Fat Tuesday.”

“Oh, yes, I'm awfully excited.” There, in her voice, he heard it: that slight edge that said she was nervous too. She had the voice of a storyteller, controllable to a fault, and if she had lost check over it, then maybe they were closer to the same page than he thought. And for some reason, that made him feel just a little bit better.

“Well, after the other day, I thought perhaps you'd like something new to wear.” He gestured with his hat to the box and moved to hand it to her, the box Augusta had been trying to eye without being too conspicuous, and she perked up. Goodnight couldn't help but grin when she started to pull the ribbon off with childlike excitement.

“Oh,” she breathed, jaw dropping and eyes becoming the size of saucers as the box fell onto her lap. She held the fabric to her chest. “Oh, Goody, you didn't.”

“It looked stunning on you,” he said, taking a seat beside her, and she blushed, cutting her eyes sideways and making the whole ordeal worth it.

Suddenly she smirked up at him and let her hands rest in her lap. “I was so angry with you the other day. I put this on and felt so pretty, and then you walked in and didn’t say a thing except for, ‘Good day, Gus,’ and I was so embarrassed.”

At her imitation of him, with her lowered voice and stern face, he allowed himself the luxury of a small snort, a few of his nerves leaving with it. “Never try your hand at acting, darlin’. A storyteller you are, but an actress you are not. Now tell me, why were you embarrassed?” He couldn’t stop himself from brushing back the one curl that always refused to stay put, letting his fingers linger on her cheek, and his stomach jumped at the way she leaned into his touch.

So quietly that he almost didn’t hear, she whispered, “I stood in the mirror and thought, ‘This must be what it’s like to be Oceane.’ And then you came in and found me admiring myself so, and I felt so stupid. Oh, Goody, I just don't know what to say.” She traced a finger over the soft fabric.

“This is too much,” she whispered after a moment, and he was struck with an irrational panic that she wouldn't accept his gift. And if she didn’t accept it, what was he to do then?

“Hogwash,” he blurted, causing Augusta to look at him curiously, eyes bright in the shadows of the dimly-lit room. “Gus, this is nothing more than me trying to purchase your forgiveness and nothing less than an expression of my complete adoration.”

“Forgiveness? You didn’t even know I was angry, why do you need my forgiveness?”

There she went stuffing his mouth with cotton again. Why did he need her forgiveness? Because he’d been a coward all of these months, and he was not who she thought he was. He swallowed hard and willed Venus to come to his aid. “Because, Gus,” he began, voice low, “these last few months, I have wasted my breath with every word that I have spoken to you. We have sat and talked for hours, and you have held me completely enthralled, but I have not even managed to allude to what needed to be said. So here I am to ask for your forgiveness that I have not told you exactly how much I love you.”

All at once, the color drained from her face, the air from the room, and Augusta's head jerked up sharply from where she'd been admiring the dress again, eyes wide and… _horrified?_ If he'd told her he had smothered her family, he would have expected a better reaction. “Oh my,” she breathed.

That had not been the reaction he'd wanted at all. But he’d made it through half of his mission, and he couldn’t stop now. He was Goodnight Robicheaux, after all. “Augusta, I—”

“Yes,” she blurted, voice wavering like she was on the edge of tears, one hand clutching the neck of her dress.

“What?”

“You're proposing, aren't you?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks and left the fabric at her neck wrinkled. “Oh, please tell me you are, or I've made a fool of myself.”

“I—you weren't—how did—I wasn't— _what_ ,” he all but whined with a stamp of his foot he'd never claim. This was not how it was supposed to go. He'd worked on his speech since Christmas, he'd perfected every little syllable in it, and she'd cut him off before he'd managed to get even a full sentence out.

“The twins, they saw you at Adler’s, that’s why we were in the dress shop. We just assumed that you…oh no.”

The twins had seen him at the jeweler’s. As fond as he’d grown of Mathilde, he couldn’t help the feeling of something akin to rage that flared up in him; it was nothing short of a betrayal what she’d done. She was as good as his sister since she’d married Ames, she should have known that he wanted the exhilaration of an elaborate surprise. But when he remembered who Mathilde was, he knew he shouldn’t have expected anything less. After a moment, Goodnight muttered, “Goddamn those Verret girls. I had a speech planned and everything. So that was your answer then?”

“My answer,” Augusta repeated like it was a foreign concept that he’d expect her to answer his proposal. “My answer...oh! Why yes—”

Before she could get out the rest of what she’d been about to say or change her mind, Goodnight swooped her up in a flurry of skirts and handkerchiefs. For the second time, he pressed his lips to hers but was unable to keep them there from her laughter and his smile. Instead, he pressed his face into her shoulder and relished the feeling of her arms tightly around his neck, her hair tickling his cheek, the way she fit into his arm—and not when he was helping her into her carriage after she’d nearly killed herself and given him a heart attack in the process.

“Yes, of course,” she said again when he pulled away.

“Well of course,” Goodnight chuckled, adding a “how silly of me” in his tone, and Augusta blushed madly, from her neck up to her nose.

Goodnight and Augusta Robicheaux. It had a nice ring to it.

_Ring._

“Oh!” Goodnight cried, letting her go only to dig in his pocket. “You—here it is—you were so bewitching I forgot all about it.”

All at once, his nerves returned, and, thumbing the smooth cover of the tiny little box, he fretted over her reaction. He took his time opening it to reveal a small gold ring, elaborately molded and his pet name for her inscribed on the inside, a prodigious diamond glittering in the center and surrounded by smaller ones. “I don’t know how it’ll fit, the band could be loose, or the stone could be too big on your finger. I just wanted something fine for you. If you don’t...well, if you don’t like it, that’s fine, we can—”

“Goodnight Robicheaux,” she scolded good-naturedly, “you put that ring on my finger.”

* * *

“The most amazing thing happened after I proposed, Billy.”

“What’s that, Goody?”

“We had a few moments together before we’d awoken Salome and she came downstairs looking for murder, but when she saw Augusta’s hand, she looked me in the eye. And then—then, her lips pulled back just ever so slightly.” Staring dazedly at the wall, Goodnight grins at the memory and shakes his head, bottle poised halfway to his lips. “That day, Salome Saucier smiled at me.”

Even Billy laughs, passing his worn-down cigarette towards Goodnight, who takes a long drag.

“That woman was the meanest snake in the world, but there she was smiling away—well, as much as she was ever going to smile. No matter how mean she was, Salome was still a woman, and a woman who didn’t care that we’d just gotten engaged at that. She snatched Mammy and cornered Augusta, and I got booted out of the parlor faster than I could blink so that they could gossip. I stood out in the hall without a clue what to do and not a care in the world, besides the fact that I had not gotten to give the speech I’d been preparing for about three months.”

He remembers looking at the door and hearing the hushed, gushing voices on the other side. At some point, Sam came through the back door, arms loaded with firewood, and found him standing there and asked what he was doing. Though he’d been in an excited stupor, he can recall grinning stupidly as he’d said, “Augusta is going to marry me.” And then he remembers a wide smile lighting up Sam’s face, teeth contrasting sharply against his skin, how his own grin had grown involuntarily at Sam’s reaction.

“Mr. Goodnight, I have the thing for you. Come with me,” Sam had said, disappearing off the hall through a little door, which led down a set of stairs into the kitchen. His load of firewood piled next to the stove, he’d removed a glass from the cabinet and poured Goodnight a large amount of whiskey, and Goodnight insisted he get another glass for himself.

When he thinks about it, it seems as though Sam had been next to him through every major event in his life, starting with the glass of whiskey they’d shared in the Evercreech kitchen. He hadn’t even known Sam at that point, but that hadn’t stopped the other man from being kind and celebrating. Sam was there at the beginning, there to help run Foxsong, and he was there at the very end too.

* * *

Goodnight kept having to remind himself to shorten his stride for Augusta to be able to trot along beside him, though he had a constant reminder when his shoulder turned not from his accord. Frequently, he had to pause as she bounced excitedly next to him, waving her handkerchief at the paraders in the street.

“They’re absolutely magnificent, but I’m so afraid they’ll catch one of the cars on fire,” she gushed breathlessly, looking up with her wide eyes to Goodnight for his opinion, which he gave with an enthusiastic nod, and they resumed their amble down the street. “Did your family come tonight? I should like to see them if they did. I know Ana and Sal had planned on being here, but Oceane was too _sick.”_

“My mama and Val were still contemplating it when I left home,” Goodnight answered carefully.

No matter how hard he tried to hide it, Augusta still managed to hear the hesitancy in his voice, and she read the pain in his face. “Your father? Is he still not well?”

 _Not well_ didn’t begin to cover it. His father had been _not well_ for months now. He was _not well_ when the cough set in, _not well_ when he lost his appetite, _not well_ when he started coming in earlier and earlier from the fields in the evenings. Maxence Robicheaux had passed the point of being not well when he took to being in bed more often than he was out of it, and now he complained daily of the pain in his chest, and there was always a pile of bloody handkerchiefs to be washed.

Goodnight startled when he felt her fingers tangling with his, and he almost chided her about being so open before he remembered that it was Mardi Gras, and even the biggest busybodies were not paying them any attention. He gripped her hand more tightly. “I’m worried, Gus. I only hope...I only hope September comes quickly.”

She didn’t say anything for a good moment. “We can change the date, if you’d like. I won’t mind, not if you’ll feel better.” So softly that he almost didn’t hear over the roar of the festivities, Goodnight turned to her suddenly, only to find her peering up at him, green eyes solemn in a way he hadn’t seen since she’d attempted to soothe his conscience about the Castex ball.

“I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Goody, I would never forgive myself if you didn’t enjoy that day. ‘Marry in April when you can, Joy for maiden and for man.’” She shrugged. “Besides, that was Ames and Mathilde’s month.”

“Gus…”

“If we do stick with September, we’ll have to pick the same day they did. Just to be spiteful.”

“Augusta Evercreech, I never thought you’d be one for spite.”

In the darkness, with the passing flambeaux throwing shadows on her face, Goodnight was still able to make out the sincerity mingling with mischievousness in those lovely green eyes and the faintest of smiles upon her lips; she was completely serious about changing the date, and part of him thought she was serious about spiting their friends. Stopping along the sidewalk, he dropped her hand and pulled her by the waist to his side, letting her linger there for the duration of the parade.

* * *

The following evening, three carriages lined the street outside the Evercreech house when the Robicheaux family arrived. First was the sleek black Saucier carriage with the elaborately scripted family name at the bottom of the door in gold, followed by the plain but long one belonging to the Abellards, and finally, the one Goodnight had hoped he would not see. Surprised that she’d even been invited, and that she'd recovered enough from whatever deathly illness she'd been inflicted by the day before, he steeled himself, knowing the dinner had taken an unexpected turn before it had even started.

“Oh. She’s here,” Valentine said disappointedly, faced pressed to the glass as always. Her expression filled with what could only be disgust, she glanced over her shoulder at her brother. “I was hoping this would be a fun evening with my new sister.”

“Weren’t we all,” he muttered, straightening his cravat—new to match his proposal vest—one last time with a deep inhale.

“Be polite,” Mrs. Robicheaux chided, giving Valentine a pointed look, to which she returned with a smirk, though it was replaced by a warm, beautiful beam the moment the front door opened, and Valentine effortlessly metamorphosed into the belle that everyone thought she was. Had she not been so outwardly charming, Goodnight thought she and Salome could have been close friends.

Inside, the entirety of the Evercreech family greeted them raucously, first the eldest, Anastasie, and her husband Amos; followed by Salome and Dorian, her husband; Oceane and Julien; and at the end of the line, Augusta stood with her parents, radiating excitement, and with one glimpse her way, Goodnight had the urge to swing her around in his arms. Valentine batted her eyes at each of them as she moved down the receiving line, effectively drawing attention away from the people they were supposed to be celebrating without an ounce of remorse.

“How’re you doing, Sam? Mammy?” Goodnight greeted, offering to shake hands when he made it through the door and into the bustling foyer, passing his coat to Sam, who laughed with his wide, bright smile. Most people probably wouldn't give even the house slaves a passing glance, but Sam had proved to be genuine company over their drinks the previous day, and Augusta loved him so that Goodnight felt it would have been rude to excluded him.

“I told you this one was smooth, Miss Augusta,” Sam joked to his mistress, who had scuttled over amid everyone cooing over Valentine. While his sister had everyone distracted, Goodnight took the moment to press a quick kiss to Augusta’s temple.

“Don’t I know it,” she quipped with a teasing grin. “Oh, Goody, I’m so sorry about Oceane. We assume Mama told her, but Ana’s sworn up and down she didn’t, and I know Sal wouldn’t. But it’s no matter, you’re are in for a real treat. Mammy made my favorite, alligator étouffée, and—”

“Where is your husband, Mrs. Robicheaux?” Mr. Evercreech asked above the noise. Perhaps he was hoping for another man to balance out the ladies, but he was only serving to get Mrs. Robicheaux worked up.

Together, Goodnight and Augusta turned while Mrs. Robicheaux tried to find an answer she could give without choking up, and Augusta was moving to her side before Goodnight could think to do so. “I’m so sorry to hear he was under the weather, Mrs. Robicheaux. But we know nothing can keep him down, and I’m sure he’ll be right as rain before the ball, don’t you, Goody?”

Goodnight knew that, unless acted upon by a miracle, his father would not be right as rain like Augusta suggested, but he understood what Augusta was doing. “Oh, yes, I’d say so. He sends his deepest condolences, Mr. and Mrs. Evercreech, that he was unable to be here tonight.”

“I hope he feels better,” Mrs. Evercreech conceded, but as hostess, she was more preoccupied by dinner. “Shall we move into the dining room, then?”

Mrs. Robicheaux and her two children shot Augusta grateful looks, and as they passed to the dining room, Goodnight pressed another kiss to her temple in thanks, his hand on her back as he guided her down the hall. That was the best part about being engaged, he thought, being able to touch her like this.

From listening to Augusta’s stories, Goodnight had sometimes pondered what an Evercreech dinner would have been like with all the sisters together, but he drew the line at curiosity, and as for a desire to partake in one, he had none. No sooner had they sat down at the table, though, was he given the opportunity to witness one first hand, starting when Oceane took center-stage.

With her hair of fire and sweet face, New Orleans men regarded Oceane as the most beautiful of the sisters, looking as though she had just stepped from the Sistine’s ceiling, slender and lithe, carrying herself with great ennui until she snapped, and she snapped often. A single glance at her gave the assumption that she was anything but _energetic_. “Dear me,” she began, “this is a sight I never thought I'd witness. An engagement dinner for my baby sister and a Robicheaux.”

She laughed spritely, bopping her head side to side, her little nose scrunching so faintly that one had to study her hard to tell if she was doing it; but that's what Oceane loved the most, being the center of everyone’s and anyone's attention. One red eyebrow raising in a way much like Salome's, striking against the paleness of her face, she giggled, “Then again, I hadn't imagined an engagement dinner for my baby sister at all.”

Next to her, and that was poor judgement on Mrs. Evercreech’s part, Salome sighed heavily, fingers clenching around the wine glass halfway to her lips. “Oceane, if you were going to be a bitch, we wouldn't have invited you…and believe me, we tried not to.”

“Salome,” Mrs. Evercreech scolded sharply, fork clattering onto her plate, “there's no need to use such language.”

“There was no need to tell her about dinner either, Mama.”

“Honestly, Mama,” Oceane huffed, ready to launch into another speech until her father cut her off with a sharp bark of her name. She pursed her lips, squaring her shoulders, but didn’t continue with whatever had been on her mind.

With Oceane quiet, the table conversation lulled, no one sure what to say after the spat. Goodnight caught his sister’s eye, who grimaced comically before she made herself giggle, though she did, for once, choose to show that tiny little bit of her that could be kind by saying cheerily, “Well, about that wedding!”

“About that wedding,” Goodnight agreed, pouncing on the moment to bring up the issue he and Augusta had discussed the day before; he desperately hoped it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle. “Well, we'd like to…to move up the date.”

The table promptly erupted.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Move it up? Why ever would you want to do that? September is a perfect time.”

“When did you want to move it?”

Goodnight shared a glance with Augusta, more amused than anything at their families’ reactions, and somehow, she must have known that his heart was too heavy to speak. She smiled graciously, in attempt to remedy the situation, as she said, “April twenty-ninth.”

At first, no said anything, and every fork stilled as they processed what Augusta had said. There was less than a month before then. How were they supposed to put together a proper societal wedding, and moreover, how were they supposed to put together a proper societal wedding for a Robicheaux, in twenty days, give or take? And _why_ , exactly, were they supposed to do this?

Salome was the first to react. With something that could have been surprise on her face, her eyes traveled down from Augusta's to somewhere just beneath the table. “Heavens,” she gasped monotonically.

“Oh,” Oceane gasped, catching on to what Salome was thinking, and her blue eyes widened with horror. “Oh, Augusta! Augusta, no!”

“Goodnight,” his mother breathed, clutching her heart, “I thought I'd raised you better.”

What were they talking about? He never knew that breeding reflected into the length of time between engagement. When Augusta had mentioned moving the wedding after he’d told her about his father, he’d thought nothing other than about how much he loved her. He glanced again to Augusta to see her shocked still in her chair, spoon dangling in her hand over the side of her bowl, jaw dropped and face redder than he’d ever seen on anyone, and then he whipped his head back and forth over the table, where he found Oceane winding herself up.

It was a physical moment, Oceane drawing in the breath she would need, her shoulders rising as her chest filled with air, and Goodnight closed his eyes before he could stop himself. Oceane had moved, to the relief of the entire parish, to Baton Rouge, and only during Mardi Gras did they ever come into contact; he was about to remember exactly why everyone had been thrilled when she left.

“Oh, Mama,” the third sister wailed at an impressive level, promptly bursting into tears, “Mama, she’s ruined us, absolutely ruined us! We’ll never be able to face anyone ever again! Even if we moved away, the people there would find out! Mama, what are we going to do? Oh, Augusta, you’re going to have to go away, but even then, everyone will know. You’ve ruined all of us here! Poor Valentine will never get married once word gets out about you two!”

Then it clicked with Goodnight what Oceane was saying and what Salome had implied, why Valentine seemed ready to launch herself across the table at him and wring his neck. Even Augusta’s mammy and Sam were thrown for a loop, standing in the corner of the dining room slack-jawed and ashen. Beside him, Augusta could only shake her head, looking as though she wanted to cry along with Oceane for once in her life, and as much as it pained him to speak about his father’s condition, he would be damned if he let Oceane be such a bully. Not caring about displaying his affection at the dinner table, Goodnight covered her hand with his.

“Listen, you’ve gotten the wrong idea. This has nothing to do with what you’re thinking. When Gus—Augusta found out the extent of my father’s health, she offered to move up the wedding so that he could be there.” Beneath his hand, Augusta wiggled her fingers until they were interlocked with his and squeezed. “My father…he is very ill, and to be perfectly honest, we don’t expect him to be long for this world. But Augusta realizes how much it would mean for all my family to be there. Now—and Mr. Evercreech, pardon me if this isn’t my place—but I don’t take kindly to such accusations to myself or Augusta.”

For a long while, no one spoke, be it out of shock or shame, until finally Valentine, uncharacteristically soft, asked, “You would do that, Augusta?”

“It’s about all of us,” Augusta whispered, gaze still downcast, and Goodnight squeezed her hand once again, wishing he could do so much more than that. He wanted desperately to gather her in his arms, to pet her hair and sing until the vivacity he so loved returned to those eyes. But he was stuck at the Evercreeches’ dinner table, watching his mother and sister dab at their eyes and his darling Augusta fret over her God-awful sisters.

For the rest of dinner, Goodnight kept their fingers entwined, and Augusta didn’t pick up her spoon again, and when there was no other talk about the date change, Goodnight assumed it was settled

* * *

“Oceane’s world balanced on a very fine needlepoint of an axis, and when it tipped over just a hair, she was determined it was going to end. Anastasie always wanted things her way, but Oceane…”

“Was crazy,” Billy finishes, and Goodnight practically roars with laughter.

“No, Billy, she was a pain in the ass.” He takes a long swig of the whiskey, grinning around the lip of the bottle. “They used to chalk it up to her being frail of nerves, or dramatic, or just particular, but honestly, she was just a pain in the ass. Lord Almighty, I swear she was the single loudest person I have ever met in my life. And Augusta, she wasn't loud at all, chatty, but never loud. She had a voice like—like...listening to her was like laying next to a brook while it babbled in its serene way, so soft and smooth, so that you wanted to close your eyes and listen forever. Whereas listening to Oceane was like having a screech owl right outside your window while you were trying to sleep. It's no wonder after all those years of being in the same house that Augusta hated her. Or at least, as much as you can hate your siblings.

“I'll tell you what though,” Goodnight says, wagging a finger. “As bothersome as the Evercreech sisters were, it sure was great when Salome and Oceane got together. Sal absolutely despised Oceane, and if Sal didn't like you, she did not hide it one bit. They would get into the best spats, left the rest of us chuckling for hours.”

And then Goodnight quiets, and he's thankful that Billy lets him reminisce. “I always found it ironic that the most unbearable one made it out.”

* * *

As usual, Mammy knocked on Augusta’s door to help her undress that evening after the guests left. Augusta didn’t even bother to answer Mammy’s knock, but remained sitting at her vanity, though she was surprised to find Mammy balancing a tray in one hand when she let herself in.

“Mr. Goodnight told me to make sure you got some food in you before you went to sleep,” Mammy said, placing the tray on the vanity in front of her.

“Goodnight,” Augusta mumbled, almost dazedly, raising her chin from her palm. “We had dinner, Mammy.”

“Well him and me both noticed you didn’t eat, and I made that étouffée  specially for you.” Without waiting for Augusta to stand, Mammy set about unbuttoning Augusta’s bodice. Augusta stared at the steaming bowl in front of her and briefly recalled Goodnight whispering something into Mammy’s ear as the woman had cleared away their meal.

Despite the terrible evening, Augusta managed a grin at her étouffée . “He’s sweet, Mammy.”

Mammy hummed noncommittally, though Augusta could see that her dark eyes were sparkling; somewhere along the way, Goodnight had earned Mammy’s approval, and that thought weaseled its way into Augusta’s mind and took the place of what had happened at dinner. Mammy showed no signs of elaborating, just slipped off Augusta’s bodice and went to unlacing her corset.

“He’s so sweet. He’s always doing things like this,” Augusta continued, twirling her spoon around the bowl with a single finger, and then she breathed a sigh of relief when her corset was peeled away. Since the night of the Castex ball, when she had come home bandaged up, Mammy had been much more forgiving when lacing her corset, but she still made sure Augusta looked her best at important events.

“That man is in over his head,” Mammy muttered, and Augusta frowned through the mirror at her, not understanding what Mammy meant. “He went through that ordeal tonight, and all he can do is ask me to bring you something to eat. Bless his heart, he is in over his head. He’s still bent on marrying you after getting a taste of Miss Oceane as a sister.”

“Don’t say a word about her, Mammy,” Augusta snapped, unexpectedly harsh as her eyes smarted. “I can’t believe what she did tonight. And in front of everyone, no less.” And then her lip was quivering, and she was trying desperately not to cry because she was the good sister and never cried. But _damn_ Oceane. Goodnight would never do anything dishonorable, not even when they were unsupervised by the willow, which she realized they should not have done; and moreover, there was no way she could be expecting when they weren’t even married, that only happened inside a marriage.

“Oh, baby,” Mammy soothed, shaking out Augusta’s hair from where it had been pinned up. “There’s no need to cry about it. Everything is all straightened out now.”

It did not feel like it was straightened out, but Augusta knew it was. It had straightened out when Goodnight had pulled her aside before they all went into the parlor after dinner, when he’d put an arm around her waist and his other hand on her cheek, asking how she was doing, his head bent close to hers, his sharp eyes soft when he searched her face. She may have still been angry, but Goodnight had taken away the majority of it when he’d brought his lips away from her forehead.

“But Mammy, it was so embarrassing. Sometimes I just hate Oceane, she’s always doing things like this. And Sal—Sal was no better, putting the idea in her head because you know Oceane could never have thought of it on her own. I don’t even know how I stayed in there after that, or how I could even look at him.”

Mammy wiped a thumb under Augusta’s eyes, which had yet to spill their tears. “Child, you faced him because that man would do anything in the world for you, and he was just as angry with Miss Oceane as you are. Now one day, when you’ve got a baby in your arms, you’ll look back at this and laugh.”

“Well I am not laughing now.”

This made Mammy laugh though, and the older woman patted Augusta’s knee as she moved away. “You eat up and get some rest. I need to get started on your trousseau tomorrow, and we have our work cut out for us. Can’t have Miss Oceane looking better than you.”

* * *

As Augusta was clipping on a pair of diamond ear bobs, an engagement gift from his parents, Goodnight let out a low whistle behind her. “Augusta Evercreech, as I live and breathe. You are simply gorgeous.”

With something between a frown and a grin, Augusta whipped around on her stool at the vanity in one of the Robicheaux guest rooms. “You weren't supposed to see yet!”

“That's not what you say. This is where you say, ‘Goody, you have the most exquisite taste I have ever known.’” By now she really was grinning in a way that said she had a trick up her sleeve.

“But I believe it was Hattie who picked this out.”

Goodnight's face blanked. The twins had been a tabooed subject for the past week, and the only time Augusta had tiptoed around them had been when she’d asked his permission to tell Mathilde what had happened. “We are not to speak of her, or any of the Verrets for that matter.”

“Don't be sore—”

“It was the most beautiful, moving soliloquy you would have ever heard. I was robbed, Augusta, duly robbed,” he insisted, thumping his chest as it filled with mild resentment. He’d never been one to hold grudges, but even after a week, he was still considering uninviting the Verrets—but he did have a best man pact with Ames.

She finished putting in her ear bobs and crossed the room to where he stood in the doorway, wanting to cross the threshold but knowing that he still didn't have that right. “And what was this beautiful, moving soliloquy about?”

“Mostly about how you are the air I breathe—”

“So nothing I didn't already know?” When Augusta tried to get away, Goodnight caught her by the hand and pulled her back to him.

This was what he wanted, to be able to banter with her during everyday tasks, to draw her to him when he wanted. He wanted to keep the same look in her eyes there forever. Tracing his thumb over her cheek, he bent his head until he felt her lips, whispering into her mouth, “It was about how I will listen to you tell every story you can imagine so long as mine ends with you.”

After too short a time, she pushed him away. “Engaged or not, we still shouldn't do this up here. What happens if someone saw us?”

“Doesn’t matter much at this point,” Goodnight shrugged, watching her retreat to the vanity, admiring the way she moved, her quick, light steps scuttling over the floor quietly. “Let's get married tonight. We already have all the guests, the food, and you have a new dress.”

“No,” she answered simply, “weddings take place in the morning.”

“Well, how about we have the reception now, and by the time it's over, it'll be morning. Our bags can be packed by then, so we'll have the wedding and leave right after.”

“It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”

“You’ve got me there.” Goodnight had known she'd never grant him that wish, but he'd tried anyway. And truth be told, he was excited to see what the wedding had in store. “Are you ready to go down? My mother wants you to help her receive guests. If I’m speaking plainly, I think she just wants to say you’re her future daughter.”

A bottle of perfume poised at her neck, Augusta scowled at him through the mirror. “This is not what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to make an entrance, Goody. I wanted to see your face when I came down the stairs in your dress.”

“Well I was supposed to have an elaborate proposal, and that didn't happen either.” When Augusta rolled her eyes, Goodnight gave her his infamous lopsided smile. “Tell you what. How about I go downstairs and pretend like I haven't seen you, and when you come down, I'll make a face like you've never seen.”

“I'd rather not take my chances on that.” Pinching her cheeks for color with an air of finality, she rose from her seat and placed her hand on the arm he offered her.

* * *

With none of the grace with which they’d been raised, the twins barreled into Goodnight and Augusta, weaseling their way between them, and a moment later Ames trotted up, his cravat askew, one hand clamped around a whiskey glass like it was his lifeline. “Goody, Goody, Goody,” Mathilde prattled so quickly that it all ran together, tugging on his sleeve. Even in her muted, matronly dress, she was still as bubbly and excitable as ever.

“We just saw something terrific,” Hattie added, trying to catch her breath as she brushed golden hair from her face, which had fallen in her dash.

“You two are the biggest gossips I have ever known,” he chided them without vigor, and Augusta shook her head in agreement. They may have been the biggest gossips, but they were entertaining nonetheless.

“Hush up, you have to hear this. It’s about _your_ sister,” Mathilde insisted, and her blue eyes flashed predatorily, a cat knowing she had her mouse where she wanted. She giggled and clapped. “Looks like you want to know now. Well. You’ll never guess who has been vying for the beautiful Miss Valentine’s attention.”

Dread settling in his chest, Goodnight scanned the third-floor ballroom, but it seemed the entirety of New Orleans had been invited, effectively obscuring his view of much of the room. Clever enough that she’d never display too much of it, Valentine could easily twist half the men in the room around her little finger without them having a clue. “She’s not in trouble, is she?”

“Valentine?” Ames barked in mirth, causing his wife to turn her attention to him. She jerkily straightened his cravat. “Are you kidding? Sacha’s in more trouble than she is.”

“Sacha _Castex_ ,” Augusta asked, glancing up to Goodnight. She raised her eyebrows. “That’s not bad. He’s a proper gentleman.”

“You have to watch Valentine, though,” he reminded her. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a deep breath in preparation to go after his sister, knowing his mother had enough on her mind to properly chaperone Valentine. “Let’s go—”

“No, no,” Mathilde shouted, “I’ll keep an eye on her! You two just enjoy your evening.”

Before either Goodnight or Augusta could protest, Mathilde had shot away and was sliding through the guests. Ames glanced between his mostly-empty glass and the disappearing trail of his wife’s skirt and then looked to Goodnight. “How much longer ‘til it’s Wednesday?”

“Three more hours,” Goodnight answered, checking his watch.

Ames tipped the last of his whiskey into his mouth. “I’m going to need something more.”

“I’ve got a bottle of strong brandy in the top drawer of the library desk.”

“You’re a good man,” Ames said, clapping Goodnight on the back as he set off for the library. Goodnight watched him go before he offered his arm to Augusta. He was grateful for Mathilde, though God knew she wouldn’t miss anything, but it would put his mind to ease to check on Valentine himself.

* * *

“It was a beautiful night, Billy. Fat Tuesday was always the biggest party of the year, and Augusta...was just like a fairy, floating around the house, leaving everyone in high spirits. She’d be right next to me one moment, and the next she’d be flitting to this group and that group before she came back to me, bubbly and…goddamn, she was just so _happy_. She was always the happiest person, just made you glad to be alive when you were with her, but that night was something else. And when she smiled, I smiled, Valentine smiled, everyone smiled, even Salome smiled that night—once, but it counted.”

He and Augusta had led the Grand March and opened the ball with the first dance. When they weren’t dancing and he’d wanted her to go with him somewhere else, he’d been able to take her by the hand, justified in doing so despite the accusing looks from other guests. No one besides their family, Ames, and the Verret twins had known they were engaged, though there was an increasing murmur throughout the night about their display until his father had made a speech just before midnight and the last quadrille, where they were toasted and Augusta had finally been able to show off her ring, which Goodnight had been keeping in his pocket until they were announced.

And then the clock had struck twelve, and it was Wednesday, and Mardi Gras was over.

“Metaphors, metaphors, metaphors. God loves them.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy: 29 April 1877  
> Augusta: 27 April 1857-June 1857
> 
> Warning: Contains a period-typical slur.

“What a funny man he is,” Salome thought aloud when Goodnight left. “If he wasn’t a Robicheaux, I’d think you were out of your mind.”

Goodnight had come calling that evening as he had most days since Fat Tuesday, only to find Salome had also dropped by for a visit, bringing Augusta the blue slippers she had been married in, and perhaps she’d grown so used to sitting with them because she hadn’t left. Catching Augusta’s eye as her sister sat down, Goodnight had merely shrugged and continued his tangent about his boyhood adventures with Ames. 

“Oh, Sal, isn’t he just? You should hear him when he gets going about Dickens. He just loves Dickens, could probably talk about him all day.”

“Could probably talk about anything all day. You must be out of you mind either way,” Salome said, but for a moment, her eyes flashed in something close to amusement. She twisted her shoulders. “But I reckon it’s too late now. You’re either walking down the aisle or running away from it. Wedding, reception. Honeymoon. _Wedding night_.”

As one of Salome’s brows quirked, the only part of her face that changed, Augusta rolled her eyes. “I wish people would stop that. You and Mathilde both keep teasing me, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is so special about it?”

“She hasn’t told you?” Paling greatly, Salome rounded on Augusta, face aghast. “Oceane, she hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Oh, God, that bitch. Well, I suppose this is better off coming from me. Who knows what she would say.” Salome crossed quickly to the door, peering into the hall to make sure it was clear. She closed the door.

“What is? Salome, whatever are you talking about,” Augusta snapped, tired of her sister’s theatrics and the silly teasing from both her and Mathilde. Salome was supposed to be the reliable, level sister, not a colder Oceane.

“It’s about what will happen Wednesday night. See, Anastasie got quite the _surprise_ the night she got married, so when it was my turn, she…explained. Then I explained to Oceane, and she was supposed to explain to you,” Salome said as she took her seat again. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, scowling like it was the cause of all her grievances, before she took a deep breath and, through clenched teeth, set about to explaining. For once she had the decency to blush, and her eyes flickered back and forth between the door and Augusta, worried that someone might overhear them or her sister would flee from the room.

Augusta sat stock-still, gaze dropping to the floor before Salome could get out three sentences, and with every word after that, blood creeped up her neck little by little until it passed to her cheeks and ears. At some point her mouth fell open, and she gripped the neck of her dress, twisting the fabric in her grip. No matter how much she didn't want to believe Salome, she couldn't help but realize that what she was saying did answer questions. No wonder the women at the end of Common Street wore so little clothing. No wonder her family had suspected she was expecting; she'd always assumed babies sort of magically happened once a man and woman got married and shared a bed, not that anything happened _while_ they shared a bed.

When Salome finished, Augusta jumped to her feet, gasping, “Sal, I can’t—I can’t do that!”

“Stop it!” Salome too was on her feet in an instant, inches away from Augusta before she could react. She placed a hand on Augusta's cheek, tender in a loose sense of the word. “Augusta, listen. It's really…it's not that bad. If you just relax a little, it's almost—well it _is_ —nice.”

“But Salome,” Augusta argued, quieting down at her sister's scalding, pointed look, “how can I do that? Even you haven't seen me like that.”

“And thank heavens for that, I have no desire to. But all you have to do is lay there usually, especially tomorrow. Besides, knowing your husband, he won't shut up long enough to actually do anything,” Salome conceded. Augusta knew she was trying to cheer her up, but Salome's words came off as harsh nonetheless; and if it didn't happen tomorrow, then it would just be postponed, and the thought of constantly waiting for it was even more terrifying. Her sister shifted feet. “You're taking this better than Oceane. She burst into tears the moment I told her he'd see her without her crinolines.”

“I feel like I'm about to,” Augusta admitted, swallowing the dread in her tone.

“Don't, or else I might hate you, and I can't afford not to like anyone in the family.”

Taking Augusta’s silence to mean their conversation was over, Salome gathered her bonnet from the side table and set about to fixing it on her beautiful head in her slow, self-assured movements. A tide of panic swelled in Augusta’s chest; how could Salome just leave her here with such terrible news? She whined, “You're leaving?”

“Yes. I've brought you your shoes, I've done my sisterly duty, and I've stayed ten times longer than I ever planned. I'm surprised Dorian hasn't come after me.” She pulled on her gloves and, seeing Augusta's face, rolled her eyes. “Stop it. There's no reason to be so worked up, and you're not supposed to be silly.”

“No reason, _indeed_ ,” Augusta huffed, finally releasing her grip on her dress, and frowned at her sister as she followed her to the door to see her out. She was supposed to be excited, and now she would do nothing but fret over the course of the next day; perhaps he wouldn't love her without her hoops and crinolines and corset, perhaps it would hurt and she'd never be able to look at him again.

Salome turned in the doorway just before she left, mouth opening, eyes hinting that she might spout off a rare moment of kindness, but then she sobered up. All she said was, “Don't be a child, Augusta.”

She closed the door behind herself, and Augusta stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. Part of her wanted to call for Mammy and lay her head in her lap, but she'd intended to end the evening by speaking with her father. How she'd ever do that now, she had no idea; she felt dirty, like she needed a bath, and she had an overwhelming fear that Mr. Evercreech would know what Salome had told her. But her chances to speak with him were growing ever slimmer, and she'd put it off long enough.

Eyes closed, Augusta breathed in to steady herself and headed down the hall for the library, where her father would undoubtedly be doing some sort of business even if it was late. The door was open, and she could see him sitting in the plush arm chair with a pile of papers on his lap, his monocle over his left eye, likely doing little good in the dim light from the lamp at his side. Strict but not unreasonable, Solomon Evercreech was a tall, slight man, gingery hair balding a tad, a thick, curved mustache quivering over his lip when he spoke; he had given Salome her cold gaze, though his eyes did not usually do him justice.

“Daddy,” she called softly, lingering in the hall. He did not glance up immediately. “Daddy, may I speak with you?”

She waited a moment while he shuffled papers. “Yes, come in, child.”

Augusta crossed to him as quietly as she could and settled herself on the floor at his feet, hoping she looked more guileless than she felt. “Now, Daddy, I know this isn't my place, and you've already done so much for me, and I know I can't thank you enough, but I haven't asked for much before either. I just…I have one last request before Wednesday.”

“What is it, then?” He listened quietly while Augusta spoke, and when his brow knitted together, she thought she'd be rebuked. But sighing, he said after she'd finished, “My dear, I've already signed Saltmore Hall to him, and the property will be his when I am gone. Must you take more from me?”

She hadn't known Goodnight had gotten her home when he'd asked to marry her, and while it was a little unsettling, she doubted that had been his sole purpose in proposing. “I'm sorry, Daddy. I understand if you say no. It's just—it would make me feel so much better to have familiar faces with me.”

Mr. Evercreech raised a hand and smoothed Augusta’s hair, smiling ever so slightly. “Oh, my sweet girl…I know I have been called many things, but let it not be said that I don't love my daughters. If this is what your heart desires, then let me fulfill this one last request.”

He leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “I'll draw up the papers tonight, and he can sign them in the morning.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” Augusta cried, popping up suddenly to throw her arms around his neck. Solomon Evercreech had given Salome more than just her namesake, but below his cool exterior was something warm that Salome did not seem to have.

“Go now,” he said with a low chuckle, “or else you'll not have any sleep. I am known for my beautiful daughters, and I can't have you looking tired.”

* * *

“I remember her eyes most of all. That, and I dropped the ring two goddamned times.”

* * *

“I'm so excited,” Ames said, straightening his vest in the mirror. “Mattie says she's beautiful. I bet you'll love her.”

Glancing up from where he’d been trying to fasten his suspenders, Goodnight caught his friend’s eye in the reflection. “Isn’t that the whole reason we’re doing this?”

“Well, yes, but normal people don’t get married because they love each other, and I’m just trying to have one last bachelor conversation,” Ames quipped back at him, and from his expression, Goodnight would have thought Ames, starry-eyed and rosy, was more excited than he was. “So can you let me savor this day? I thought for sure you’d only ever be Uncle Goody to all my children, but now I get to be Uncle Ames to all my godchildren.”

“You were going to be Uncle Ames with or without me. Remember Mattie?” Goodnight reminded him, and Ames rolled his eyes.

“Lord, I’ll be so thankful when those girls get married, but this isn’t about them, Goody. It’s about you, and your wedding…and you taking your sweet time getting ready. Jesus, can you hurry? Augusta is as sweet as she can be, but she’s still an Evercreech, and I’d rather not test her patience on her wedding day. Look, even I’m dressed.” Ames crossed to where Goodnight was just buttoning his vest and grabbed hold of the lilac cravat from Goodnight’s bed. “Watch this, I learned a new trick just for you.”

“One of these days, you’ll learn something useful,” Goodnight teased as Ames fumbled with his cravat but managed to tie it elegantly enough.

“But then what good will you be?” Ames took a step back to admire his work, hands on Goodnight’s shoulders. He paused for a moment like that, suddenly almost pensive as he regarded Goodnight. When he spoke, his voice, soft and airy, had lost most of its teasing gleam. “Look at you. My big brother ready to get married. We finally grew up.”

“Big brother,” Goodnight snorted, clapping him on the back and moving for his coat; he had enough to worry about besides Ames getting sentimental. “You’re seven months older than me.”

And like that, Ames was back to his twinkling self. He plopped his boutonnière into his button hole and then did the same for Goodnight before snatching both their hats. “Oh, Goody, be honest here. You’re the big brother in this relationship. If I hadn’t been so set on getting you with Augusta, I would have made you dance with the broom at my wedding.”

Ames ushered Goodnight out of his bedroom and down the stairs of the Robicheaux mansion in New Orleans, chiding him for asking if he had the ring, though he patted his pockets “to double-check” when he thought Goodnight wasn’t looking. They hurried into the waiting carriage, and with a lurch, jostling Goodnight’s stomach even more, it began its journey across the city.

* * *

Excitable and eager to do his best man duties, Ames straightened up the moment the canon started and rushed to fix anything on Goodnight that could have been askew. Goodnight swatted him away, mostly out fear that he would throw up on him if Ames stood there any longer. At any moment, Augusta would come down the aisle, and it would be the end of an era, the age he’d been referring to in his mind as Before-Augusta.

The congregation rose. Haggard and sickly, Maxence Robicheaux struggled to his feet but with his characteristic smile lighting up his sunken face, beyond elated that he could celebrate the day, and once again, Goodnight said silent thanks that Augusta had offered to do this. Little Minerva Verret pranced inside one of the left-side pews, and two rows in front of her, Oceane fanned herself fervently. Goodnight mentally dared her to faint—he had yet to fully forgive her for her episode at their engagement dinner—and Salome, ignoring Anastasie’s death-grip on her arm, scowled around Dorian so fiercely at her redheaded sister like she was daring her as well; maybe Augusta had been right that they could count on Salome. In the very back corner, tears streamed down Mammy’s face as she beamed at Goodnight, and Sam gave him a short jerk of the head when he caught his eye, though Goodnight couldn’t have very well left them out, not when Augusta adored them so.

On the arm of Solomon Evercreech and looking tiny next to her tall, lanky father, Augusta appeared in the door at the far end of the St. Louis Cathedral, clad in a dress with a voluminous white skirt and an ornate lace veil trailing feet behind her; with the distance between them, he couldn’t make out any of her features besides her inky hair framing her pale, round face beneath it.

 _Come on, darlin’, you don’t have dawdle,_ he thought, curbing the urge to shift from foot to foot while his heart hammered in his ears, but at the same time, he wanted her to enjoy her spotlight.

But then Augusta had reached the end of the aisle, and Mr. Evercreech kissed her cheek through her veil.

“Wipe your chin, Goody,” Ames might have said when Mr. Evercreech passed her to Goodnight, but he’d never know. Gaze cast down, Augusta glanced up hesitantly through her lashes at him, grinning bashfully. His breath caught in his chest at the sight of those big green eyes, bright against all her white and her black hair, those big green eyes which washed away any lingering doubt about himself that he might have had. Maybe he wouldn’t make a good husband, but goddamn it, he was going to try. He squeezed her hand, a gesture which she returned, grin turning into a smile, and they knelt before the priest. 

Goodnight had been to enough weddings to know what happened without being aware of the proceedings. This person read from that, they crossed themselves here, stand then sit over and over, more readings. He moved in a daze, only aware that Augusta was next to him, buzzing excitedly, and his fingers were in hers, and for once in his life, Ames had been right about something.

“I wish he’d get to the vows, Goody, I’m about to faint,” Augusta whispered at one when the priest addressed the congregation.

“Do what,” Goodnight muttered, only vaguely registering her voice, though he had a moment of panic when he processed what she’d said. “You are pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

“We’ll find out,” she said without a care in the world, sounding overjoyed to be about to faint; at least she was closer to the ground this time.

Finally the priest had them stand, and taking a deep breath, Goodnight repeated after the priest, “I, Goodnight Robicheaux, take you, Augusta Evercreech, to be my wife. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”

In her soft voice, giddy and shaking, Augusta repeated, “I, Augusta Evercreech, take you, Goodnight Robicheaux, to be my husband. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”

They were married. It didn’t matter what happened now, they were Goodnight and Augusta Robicheaux. They were married. The priest blessed them, but Goodnight met Augusta’s eye, unable to keep his face stoic, and in her face of glass, he saw that she was thinking the same thing.

Goodnight had just enough sense to realize the priest was blessing the ring. After it had been sprinkled, he turned to Ames for it, and the other man held it out.

And it clattered to the floor.

“ _Shit_ ,” Ames cried loudly, and a few of the men in attendance snickered as both he and Goodnight dove for it. Ames scrambled on hands and knees for the ring as it slipped away, rolling across the floor. He launched himself after it and flattened it to the ground with his palm. Fair hair flopping into his eyes, he popped up with it tightly between his thumb and forefinger, embarrassment nowhere near his features. From somewhere on Goodnight’s side, Micah Magee whooped.

Goodnight took the ring from him, laughing nervously—his whole body ached from where he’d tensed so suddenly—and turned back to Augusta, whose jaw trembled, eyes twinkling, but she remained quiet. He responded with a lopsided grin and forgot the incident when she looked at him from beneath her lashes. He licked his lips.

“Gus—Augusta, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said, attempting to slip it onto her finger.

Only to have it slip _past_ her finger.

With another wild dive, Goodnight nearly headbutted Augusta in the stomach as he lunged for the ring, watching from the corner of his eye Ames springing into action, but the ring, spinning twice, landed at their feet. Goodnight picked it up, cursing at it in his mind, unlike Ames who had done it aloud.

“Well,” Augusta whispered, beaming up at him, “you should have shaken out all the bad luck by now.”

“I thought the phrase was ‘third time’s the charm,’” he teased, feigning like he would drop it again, but he was grateful Augusta would laugh it off.

Still under her veil, Augusta scrunched up her nose, failing miserably at looking angry as she always did, and tried to growl, “Goodnight Robicheaux, you put that ring on my finger.”

* * *

The moment the carriage doors closed, Goodnight tossed back her veil, freeing her lovely round face from any obstruction no matter how thing it may have been, and he pulled her flush against him.

“Mrs. Robicheaux, you are simply divine. _Vous êtes la plus belle créature que j'ai jamais vue_.” He tried to press his lips to hers, but Augusta’s were pulled back widely. “Would you stop smiling so that I can kiss you?”

Augusta merely responded with her bright laugh, tipping her head back in that familiar, intoxicating way. “Oh, Goody, _il y a longtemps que je t'aime_.”

“ _Jamais je ne t'oublierai,”_ he murmured back, stroking down her hairline, desperate to touch her but knowing Mammy would skin him alive if he messed up her hair. They were tucked away in a carriage together, _alone_ , and he could touch her if he wanted because she was his wife. His sweet, beautiful little wife. Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux.

* * *

Buttoning his coat, Ames stood with an expression of giddy smugness. He tapped his fork on the side of his glass.

“If I may have your attention, please.” When the room quieted, he continued, “Now, I know I should be toasting to the newlyweds, but I think it's fitting that we all raise our glasses to me. Because I take full credit for this wedding. To Ames, Eros in disguise!”

Three seats down, Mathilde pointedly cleared her throat, scowling at Ames, who relented, “Ok, Mattie gets some credit for always corralling Augusta for me. Now, to Ames, Eros in disguise!”

His smugness increasing when the crowd hesitantly raised their glasses, he grinned cheekily at Goodnight. “Are you proud of that one, Goody? I used Eros. But I _digress_.” His whole being gave an excited tremble.

“Anyway. As I take full credit for this wedding, Goody, Aggie, please don't make me regret it. When Augusta told us that story about the boo-hag and the toad at her debut, and she used the word ‘querulous,’ I just knew that this was the girl my best friend would marry. And wasn’t I right? Now, we all know that Goody can talk for hours about anything, and days if he knows what he’s talking about the subject, but Augusta—not only does she have patience enough to listen to him, but she can give him a run for his money. Thankfully they both listened to good ol’ Ames, and here they are just glowing before you today as husband and wife.”

“All joshing aside, it really is such an honor to stand beside my best friend, my brother, on this day. I teased him earlier today that he was the older brother in our relationship because he’s always the one looking after me, but now, he finally gets someone to look after him. Augusta, Aggie, my new sister, I now put him in your capable hands—Lord knows you have much more patience with his jabbering than I do.

“Now, let us toast to the groom and bride, Mister and Missus Goodnight Robicheaux.”

As the guests raised their glasses, Ames clapped Goodnight on the back and took his seat, swiping at his nose, though he’d never admit to the crack in his voice. Maybe Ames was silly, and maybe he lived in his own carefree world, but it could not be said that he didn’t come through when needed. Good ol’ Ames, indeed.

“I suppose it’s my turn,” Goodnight said, buttoning his own coat as he stood. “Before I really get going, I’d like to thank my parents for this day, especially my mother for never following through with those threats to wring my neck. Of course, thank you, Ames, for the _little_ push in the right direction, and Mathilde for aiding in his matchmaking. And thank you Solomon and Collette Evercreech, for a daughter more beautiful than I ever imagined.

“Now, when I came home, I wasn’t in a hurry to get married, but Ames was in a hurry to get me married. He dragged me to a party, where the story began—quite literally, I might add. Augusta sat down and told us all a story that night, and that was the moment I was hooked. Since then, I’ve been listening to her tell all kind of stories, so finally, thank you to Anastasie, Salome, and Oceane, but mostly you, Oceane; you’ve given her so many wonderful stories to tell. But it is truly my honor that my story will end with her. 

“When I proposed—or tried to, at least—I had planned a beautiful speech, which was tragically cut short—thank you, Mathilde, Hattie—but I suppose this should do.”

“Oh no,” Augusta groaned, covering her cheeks with her hands, neck already reddening. She cringed in her seat.

“Have more faith in me, Gus,” Goodnight chuckled.

“Often, we do not marry for love, but for convenience or duty, hoping love comes somewhere along the way. But, Augusta, my convenience is this: that I will not ride to Saltmore Hall whenever I wish to see your beautiful face, but that I may wake up to it every morning. My duty is this: that I shall keep upon your lips the smile that I have come to need so desperately, that has become more essential to me than water. Often, we do not marry for love, but Augusta, my darlin’, you have no idea how much I love you. If I have seen you in a thousand different lights, you have been beautiful in all of them. You are the sun upon my face and the song upon my lips, and I will love you with every breath in my body, for you are my life itself.

“So, here is to my morning rise and working day; my Sunday afternoons and evening rest; my song and my speech; my home and heartbeat. Here is to... _ma vie_.” 

“ _Sa vie_.”

* * *

“Do you know what tomorrow is, Billy?”

Billy squints while he tries to figure out the days. Out on their own, with days between towns, it’s hard to keep track of the date. “April...it’s the twenty-ninth of April.”

“That’s right. Tomorrow would be our twentieth anniversary.” By this point, Goodnight has tears falling silently from his eyes. “We set the date for September sixteenth originally, but we ended up moving it to April.”

By now, the bottle of whiskey that Goodnight had been nursing is only a third of the way full, but Goodnight is as sober as he was to begin with. He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Twenty years ago, I was lying wide awake in bed, listening to my poor father’s cough, and it didn’t seem quite as harsh because he was going to get to see the wedding. And I kept thinking to myself, ‘Goodnight, you are one goddamn lucky sonovabitch. This time tomorrow night, you are going to be making love to your wife on your way to Paris.’” 

* * *

It hadn't been until they'd gone back to their car after dinner that Augusta had remembered what was supposed to happen.

Now, poised at the foot of the bed, she stood in front of Goodnight, her chest rising and falling more quickly than she cared to admit, trying to focus on anything besides what she was supposed to do. To her relief, he seemed almost as self-conscious about the situation as she did, judging from how he kept licking his lips, quick like he was reminding himself to be calm while he tried to find the right words, how his eyes flickered over her face, to her hands, down her body, somewhere over her shoulder, while she stared at the top button on his vest, noting the detailing in the brass, the scripty _R_ s in the center, now her last name too. But she couldn't focus on the buttons the whole night, and she needed him to make a move.

As if reading her mind, Goodnight tangled his fingers in hers. “Your hands are cold.”

“I'm nervous,” she breathed, not entirely sure what it had to do with her hands being cold but surprised she could even manage that much. She just thanked her lucky stars he was doing something.

“Don't be,” Goodnight whispered back, tilting her chin up to him with a single firm but gentle finger. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her to him while using his other hand to cradle the back of her neck.

Augusta tried to switch off her mind, tried to lose herself in the touch of her husband, but when he reached for the buttons on her own dress, she snapped back to reality. Since she'd been old enough to bathe herself, she hadn't been seen in anything less than her chemise and drawers, not even by her mother and sisters, and never in such a condition by a gentleman. Her mind whirred, and modesty and nerves replaced where giddiness and comfort should have been. She didn’t catch herself before she’d shifted.

The movement made him draw back from her. “Do you trust me?”

 _He likes that loaded question_ , Augusta thought, pulling away from him to fully see his face, all the warmth she'd ever known him to have emanating from his sharp blue eyes. Goodnight cupped her cheek in a way she knew was to try to calm her down, tracing his thumb under her eye. As the train hit a bump, he fell a step closer to her so that their hips brushed.

From what Salome had said, she’d expected him to have tossed her onto the bed and done whatever horrid things he needed to by this point; she had been told that he would change after they got married, since he wasn’t having to woo her anymore, but here he was being utterly Goodnight, tender, perceptive. And then a hesitant smile flickered over Augusta's lips, and before he caught them in his own, she whispered, “Yes.”

He deepened the kiss, sliding her bottom lip between his, and pulled her closer. This was not quite what she expected, the gentleness, the slowness, though she didn’t know how she could have expected anything else from him. She had expected the embarrassment and sickness that grew with each layer that was shed, but she had not expected the tugging in her stomach to accompany it.

One by one, he dropped her layers, watching as she slowly became smaller and smaller until she was clad only in her stockings and corset, a slender little woman who could not decide to faint or kiss him.

“How—what is this contraption,” Goodnight asked, something akin to dread crossing over his eyes as he fingered the laces on her back, and Augusta momentarily forgot her unease with him unable to comprehend how her corset worked. Perhaps if he couldn’t figure out how to get her out of it or got too fed up with the laces, he would give up; but then again, that would only postpone this whole ordeal.

“There are buttons.” Slowly she fumbled to release each one, biting her lip and glancing up and down at him, unable to meet his eye for any length of time. As she struggled with the last one, hands trembling too badly, he covered them in his own and stepped forward, edging her closer to the bed. Her corset fell away. _This is normal,_ she told herself. _Salome said it would be nice._

Taking a seat at the foot, Augusta glanced away while she peeled off her stockings, and when she raised her head, she found that Goodnight had taken the opportunity to undo his own buttons on his pants without her watching him. She started before she could stop herself, heart pounding, feeling the heat reach past her neck to her ears.

“Gus,” Goodnight began, sitting down next to her in only his long johns.

Eyes squeezed shut, Augusta cut him off by shaking her head, muttering, “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

And like that, before she fully realized what had happened, the last of their layers fell away and he laid her back on the bed.

“ _Mon cœur t'appartient, ma vie_ ,” Goodnight breathed into her neck, and she tried to focus not on the weight of him over her but on the sound of his voice, low and familiar and comforting. He traced a finger up the inside of her arm and then peppered kisses in a hot trail over it. “ _Mon coeur, mon monde, mon tout. Ma vie."_  

* * *

“I took in the sight of her laying on the bed on our wedding night, and I knew I would never see that again. That would be the only time I ever looked at my wife like that, and I wanted to make it last. Neither of us had a clue what we were doing. Ames had given me some surreptitious, muddled advice, and Sal had told her what happened, but that doesn't prepare you at all when you're looking at a woman for the first time, unclothed and scared and waiting on you to decide how it's going to go. All the advice in the world can't prepare you for that whatsoever.

“I didn't know what to do, but I knew it was the physical act of letting a woman know you loved her. So I tried that. For the first time in my life, I kept my words to myself and let my actions tell her I loved her.”

Sometimes, on the good nights, he finds himself bound for Savannah, listening to Augusta drown out the rumblings of the train, her sighs, her moans, even her laughter. She murmurs his name next to his ear in her soft voice. He sees her writhing under his touch, back arching and toes curling, sometimes pushing him away when she can't stand the pleasure, sometimes holding him close when she can't get enough of it. On the good nights they stay like this, engrossed and entangled in each other.

But on the bad nights, he's trapped somewhere nearby in a cloud of smoke, listening to Augusta scream, muffling the sounds of indistinguishable voices, harsh and cruel. They cackle and jeer while she screams, begging for them to stop whatever it is that she knows they're doing but that he can't see. The only time he had heard his wife beg was in April of 1861, but here it is all she can do, besides wail and sob. No matter how hard he tries—and sometimes he doesn't at this point—he can't get to her, can't find her in all the smoke that clouds his vision and fills his lungs until all he can do is retch. On the bad nights, he wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, stomach churning and tears burning his eyes, Billy looking over him with masked concern.

“I thought we had time. I thought there would be time for me to ravage her later, for those quick moments of sudden passion.” 

* * *

After three nights of watching her, Goodnight grew fed up of trying to figure out how she did it. Augusta sat down at the mirror on the fourth night to release her hair from her pins only to have Goodnight do it for her, picking out each pin that was so skillfully hidden in her mane, and when he thought he had every one out, he shook her hair just like she did.

“Now what?”

Augusta cocked an eyebrow and pulled out one last pin. “Three sections.” He meticulously sectioned off her hair, moving each curl when he thought the sections were uneven. “Now put the left one in the middle, then the right one in the middle, and repeat.”

He did as she said, weaving each of his strands in and out slowly, though it was a constant battle as his fingers kept getting tangled, and he couldn't keep from somehow tying knots at the ends. When he finished, he stood back to examine his disappointing work. Catching her gaze in the mirror and finding her eyes glittering, the ghost of a smirk on her lips, he mumbled, “This is not as easy as you make it look.”

Augusta felt what he had done. “You need to keep it tighter. My hair won't fall out if you pull just a little.”

He did not want to pull her lovely, enticing curls, but he refused to let her mane get the best of him. “I will not be beaten by this,” Goodnight said, unwinding his work.

He tried a second time, trying to keep her hair tight like she’d suggested, but he couldn’t keep the tangles out no matter how hard he tried. “Do you want to know a secret? I absolutely adore your hair.”

With more seriousness than he’d ever seen, Augusta looked at him through the mirror. “Oceane told me I had nigger hair one time.”

Goodnight pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, shaky breath. “Darlin’, you have no idea how glad I am that she’s in Baton Rouge.”

* * *

“Was it good?”

“Was what good, the lovemaking or the wedding?”

“Both.”

Accomplishing what was undoubtedly his mission, Billy’s question makes Goodnight grin wolfishly. “I'd say the wedding was the second-best day of my life. It was the wedding of the year, even if it had been thrown together, and Gus was absolutely gorgeous, just like she deserved. Most people come back from their honeymoon tired of their spouse, but I couldn’t get enough of her, and for once in her life, Gus was the center of attention and loved every minute of it. And well...infer what you will, but we were expecting by the time we got back home.”

Slowly his smile fades, and he closes his eyes. He knows in the pit of his stomach that it’s past midnight by now. He knows that if he’d made even one different choice that he could be lying in bed with his wife—even if they weren’t in Louisiana—instead of sharing a hotel room with a Korean assassin hundreds of miles away in California.

He tips the last swig of whiskey from the bottle into his mouth, and Billy takes the cue to mean their talk is over, snuffing out his cigarette on the nightstand. Joints creaking, reminding him of just how many years have passed, he replaces their liquor sack with the other packs and turns to find Billy watching him stoically, perhaps trying to figure out if this will be a night where he’ll end up joining the older man in bed.

But Goodnight couldn't share a bed with anyone tonight. And it's not as if he'll sleep enough to have a nightmare. 

* * *

For two weeks, they were in Paris, spending the days in a whirlwind of museums and strolls along the Seine after a late morning and cancans and freak shows in the evenings before going back to their hotel, making for even later nights. Goodnight danced with her at restaurants, even when she insisted it wasn't proper for married couples to do so, and didn't bat an eye when he opened the wallet at dress shops, even when she told him that he shouldn't be there.

And he loved every minute of it. He loved watching her face light up when he purchased a new dress after she insisted that she didn't need it, telling her that she needed a splendid new wardrobe if she was going to be the new Mrs. Robicheaux. He loved leaving a restaurant only to discover it was well into the night, though they never went to bed at a decent hour, instead choosing to delve into the new pleasures of marital life or to stay up talking the night away.

“I love this city,” Augusta said on their last night when she caught him staring at her from the doorway leading to their balcony, in awe that the beautiful woman with the foreign city lights as her backdrop was his wife. “I never thought I would love any city besides New Orleans, but Paris has grown on me. Is this how it was with Charleston?”

The city had grown on him too. When he went out alone, he found himself seeing traces of her; there she was on the corner outside the hotel, stooped down to pet the stray mutt that hung around the block, and there she was sharing a box of petit fours with a group of children outside the bakery that he’d discovered. Traces of his wife peppered the city, and he wanted to linger in those traces forever.

“We can stay if you'd like,” he said, pushing himself from the doorway and towards her. She was wearing one of her new dresses and the look she had taken to giving him: a faint, closed-mouth grin and her eyes half-closed, as if he had just woken her from a wonderful dream. When he wrapped his arms around her waist, she leaned against his chest, skimming her hand over his cheek.

“You want to get home,” she replied after a moment of searching his face, and his silence was all the answer she needed. “It’s fine, sweetheart. I understand.”

“I’ve enjoyed this, I really have, but I’m…” When he let his mind wander the slightest bit away from her, he remembered what he’d left back home, and it scared him. With a sinking feeling, Goodnight was certain that they’d return to Louisiana to find his father gone, and he wouldn’t have said goodbye or been there for his family during the funeral.

“I understand,” she repeated. Perking up, she asked, “Why ever were you lurking in the doorway?”

“I was admiring the beauty,” he told her, and she let out a little huff in amused embarrassment, still not used to his compliments.

Goodnight bent his face to meet hers and let the city watch them kiss. Somehow Augusta sensed that he wanted more, and she tugged him by the vest back inside their room. It was only fitting that they celebrate their last night in Paris. 

* * *

He never answered her question.

In the stillness of the nights, when he's left with nothing but his thoughts and memories, he can recall all the things he has and hasn't done. He recalls the man at the shop’s face every time he came in for a new frame, how masterfully he could plait her hair by the time they returned to New Orleans, and the way her eyes closed whenever he did it. He can recall the scent of her perfume and the scent of cannons faster than he can say his name.

On restless nights like these, he imagines he's atoning for his sins. Whenever he pulls the trigger, the bullet doesn't wound, but rather it is leaving the unfortunate soul—usually a color guard or captain—and whizzing past the trees back into the rifle. He isn't walking away from Oceane, but rather he's gathering her to him. He's on the Parisian balcony answering every question Augusta ever had.

 _Yes,_ ma vie, _this is what it was like with Charleston. You fall in love with a new city and all its little idiosyncrasies, but no matter how much you love it, it'll never be home._

Billy flips over in the opposite bed, and Goodnight can't help a faint smile; it would make more sense for Goodnight to be the restless sleeper, but Billy always wiggles, tossing and turning.

Ma vie, _nothing will ever compare to home._

The lyrics from his second-favorite song bloom on his lips, but he keeps quiet. Restless and twitchy, Billy makes for a light sleeper. He turns over again, and Goodnight wonders how easy it would be to get a cigarette. 

* * *

As they were loading the carriage to go home, an idea struck Goodnight. He waited until they had everything tied down until he told Sam where to take them.

“Why are we stopping here?” Augusta swept back the curtain just enough to peek out the window, and not for the first time was Goodnight amused. Valentine couldn't go anywhere without her face against the glass; it would take some getting used to Augusta being content to sit quietly under his arm.

“Gus, I want you to go in there and pick out anything.” 

“Goody, _you_ already bought enough in Paris—” But Goodnight was already alighting from the carriage and holding out his hand to help her down.

“We’re not leaving until you find something,” he told her on their way through the door. He'd come to learn that Augusta, wildly intelligent as she was, would not be so brazen as to ever speak against her husband.

Inside, the man behind the counter, small and mousy, glanced over the tops of the eyeglasses low on his nose when the bell rang, pausing briefly with his task. With a flash of delight that the owner was not on the floor, Goodnight kept his hat low on his head until he had his back turned to the man, looking inside the watch cases on the other side of the room, while Augusta browsed through the brooches and bracelets.

“I'll be with you shortly,” the man said after a moment’s consideration, more than a little unenthused, and went back to what appeared to be setting a stone.

Augusta roved over the cases slowly, taking her time in looking, and Goodnight had to pretend he was very interest in a new chain. Eventually she stopped and peered up at the man, hands clasped in front of her, waiting patiently for him to offer assistance, but he continued to labor with the jewel in his tweezers. After a few moments, she caught Goodnight’s eye, and he raised his fist to his throat. Augusta took the hint to clear her throat, very quietly, just loud enough to get the worker’s attention.

“I will be with you in a moment,” the mousy man said again, harder this time, not even glancing up from his task.

Eyes widening at his brusqueness, Augusta looked to Goodnight for help.

While he'd wanted to make a point by coming into the shop, Goodnight worked to curb his fury at the slight to his wife. In his coldest but most sincere tone he could manage, he said, “Pardon me, but I believe my wife has been patiently waiting for your assistance.”

From a back room, there came the sound of what seemed like scattering papers, and a small, portly man popped into the doorway, his halo of grey hair sticking up in mad tufts.

“Mist—oh gracious. Mr. Robicheaux, what a surprise! I had no idea you'd come in.” He waddled over to greet them, shaking Goodnight’s hand firmly and bowing as low as his stomach would let him as he kissed Augusta’s fingertips, though she blushed madly. When he rose, he dabbed at his forehead, stammering nervously, “Please, forgive my associate, he didn't recognize you. And this—this must be the new Mrs. Robicheaux, yes?”

“It is. Augusta, this is Mr. Adler, owner of the shop. Adler, this is my wife, Augusta.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Robicheaux? Please, forgive my associate. Had he known who you were, he never would have made you wait.” Again, Adler dabbed at his forehead, which was breaking out in red splotches.

“Oh…it was no problem, Mr. Adler.” If Augusta had been taken aback by the associate’s behavior, it was nothing in comparison to Adler’s. He shot a frightening scowl towards his associate, who ducked into the back office in the blink of an eye. Adler tucked his handkerchief away as he composed himself.

“May I see the ring, Mrs. Robicheaux?” He held out his hand and brought a monocle from his breast pocket to his eye. “Ah, yes. I remember this ring. Beautiful design, one of my favorites, I must say. Your husband here had it specially made, did you know that? He came in two days after Christmas and asked how much it would take to get a ring designed. And how lovely it looks on your hand indeed.

“I can see no problem with it, which means you must be in for something else. How may I help you? You have lovely green eyes, my lady, so might I suggest this ivory brooch?”

As Adler was opening the case, Goodnight tapped on the glass. “I think this one is more appropriate.”

“Oh, Goody, no…” Augusta tried to say as Adler pulled a peridot choker from the case, sparkling madly and elaborately made. Adler passed it to Goodnight, who paid no attention to her protests, settling it about her neck and only mildly fumbling with the clasp. “No, I don't need this.”

“Nonsense,” Goodnight argued, holding up a mirror in front of her. “Of course you do when matches your eyes perfectly.”

“Goody–”

“Only the best for a Robicheaux,” Adler agreed.

* * *

Sometime in the night, Billy managed to slip out of the room without Goodnight, who was wide awake the entire time, noticing. He packs their stuff alone, but in a way, he's grateful that Billy decided to make himself scarce; his heart is too heavy already to deal with Billy's pity, which he never shows, but Goodnight knows it's there. At this point, he's learned to listen to the air around Billy rather than read his face.

He readies their horses, still with no sign of his partner, and takes two biscuits for the both of them when he pays for their room. The next town is less than a day's ride east, and if they get started now, they can make it by sundown if they don't dawdle. Just as he bends down to tighten the saddle on his horse, he sees a pair of familiar black boots striding into the stable.

“Put those away,” Billy tells him when Goodnight holds out Billy's biscuits.

“Breakfast,” Goodnight retorts in confusion, hoisting himself into the saddle.

“Snack later. Get off the horse.”

Without even waiting on Goodnight to dismount, Billy jerks his head and stalks back out of the stable. Goodnight follows like always, not letting Billy get too far, until they get to the restaurant. He glances at Billy from the corner of his eye, but Billy slips past the doors.

“What can I get you,” the bartender asks with a pointed look at Goodnight.

“Four pancakes, two coffees, bacon,” Billy answers. An eyebrow cocked, signaling a fight could be nearing, the waiter snarls down his nose at Billy before turning his attention back to Goodnight. He only cocks his own eyebrow with a look that says, _You heard my friend._

When the bartender leaves, muttering under his breath about a white man bowing down to a Chinaman, Goodnight leans over the table. “What are we ordering breakfast for?”

“You said this was Augusta’s favorite. Today is important.”

After he’s processed that, Goodnight can only nod that, yes, Augusta loved pancakes, and be thankful for Billy.

Later they ride out of town, stomachs full, and Goodnight gets only the slightest bit of comfort from leaving. For those few hours, he'd brought his old life into reality, and now he's leaving a little part of it in this place. That same little part of him makes him want to stay here and revel in that old life; he hadn’t been allowed to properly grieve when he left it behind, and today, more than ever, he wants to wallow in that old glory.

Eventually, when his chest has gotten too tight, he clears his throat, and Billy looks over at him. “Do you...I thought I might...do you mind?”

Billy’s eyes flash down to the revolver on Goodnight’s hip then back up to his face, and Goodnight knows exactly what he meant. He’d been given that same look on more than one occasion, all on days worse than this, and if he hadn’t touched it then, he won’t touch it now. “I won’t use it,” he says to answer Billy’s unspoken question.

Sometimes Goodnight wonders just how much Billy trusts him, or if he’s simply letting Goodnight do whatever and hoping for the best. But no matter, he gives that slight nod of the head that had taken Goodnight a year to fully recognize, and then says, “I’ll meet you outside of the town.”

Goodnight turns his horse away and spurs it on, not realizing the wind carries his song back to Billy.

 

_“Oh, the years creep slowly by, Lorena,_

_The snow is on the ground again._

_The sun's low down the sky, Lorena,_

_The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been._

_But the heart beats on as warmly now,_

_As when the summer days were nigh._

_Oh, the sun can never dip so low_

_A-down affection's cloudless sky.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts: At Cajun weddings (but I don't know when exactly this started), if the younger sibling gets married before the older one, the older sibling has to dance with a broom at the reception. Also during this time, since sex was not really discussed, girls were known to run away to their after their wedding night because of their surprise.
> 
> French translations according to Google:  
> Vous êtes la plus belle créature que j'ai jamais vue--You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,  
> Il y a longtemps que je t'aime--I have loved you for a long time. (Refrain of the song "A la claire fontaine)  
> Jamais je ne t'oublierai--I will never forget you. (Second part of the refrain)  
> Ma vie--my life  
> Sa vie--his life  
> Mon cœur t'appartient, ma vie--My heart belongs to you, my life.  
> Mon coeur, mon monde, mon tout--My heart, my world, my whole.
> 
> The song at the end is called "Lorena." It was popular during the Civil War on both sides and incredibly beautiful. I highly recommend a listen.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy: May 1877  
> Augusta: May-October 1857
> 
> So this is sort of like Part One of Two. The next chapter will be more of a continuation of this one.

Billy doesn’t let on that he doesn’t like it when Goodnight leaves, but he always returns to find the younger man inebriated, or at least on his way. This time is no different, though Billy has made it through considerably less of the bottle than usual; either he hasn’t been waiting long, or he hasn’t been bothered as much.

Goodnight can’t be upset that Billy’s never asked about before the war when he’s never asked about Billy’s history. He knows the gist about Billy—an indentured man wanting freedom—and Billy must assume he knows the gist about Goodnight. It’s been an unspoken rule that they don’t ask personal questions, and for the most part, Goodnight has obliged, except for the occasions when they’ve slipped out in his chatter. But Billy’s never answered them, sometimes doesn’t even look at Goodnight to let him know he’s been heard. Those are the times when Goodnight wonders if Billy actually listens, or if his voice is nothing more than the grasshoppers and the sparrows.

He doesn’t say a word when he rides up, just waits for Billy to get off the ground and saddle his horse again, before they go into town together. Billy doesn’t ask where he’s been, and Goodnight doesn’t tell him that he spent an hour or so under a tree, talking to the wind.

* * *

For the next few days, Goodnight makes no reference to the story he'd told Billy, and they both go back to playing the roles they've given themselves. Billy makes them decent money with his knife fights, and during the days, Goodnight occupies himself at the saloon. Billy joins him every once in a while for a few rounds of hold ‘em, though he doesn't stay very long since he usually loses more money than he wins; he's better at picking up other players’ tells than Goodnight, but Billy can't have a decent hand dealt to him to save his life.

They spend two weeks there, longer than either had wanted, but a harsh spring rain set in, and neither had any desire to play in it. So they bide their time, Goodnight making friends in the saloon, in the store, wherever he goes, and Billy keeping his head low in Goodnight's shadow.

They ride quietly for most of the morning, but it is Billy who breaks the silence. “Someone got lost.”

He's referring to the large blue farmhouse they pass, too fine for the dusty plains surrounding them, probably belonging to a railroad magnate or successful rancher, but Goodnight agrees that no matter who it belongs to, the house looks out of place.

From somewhere inside him, buried beneath years of pain and resentment, a bit of smugness rears its head. “Billy, I want you to picture this: there’s a long drive, and at the end, it circles around a perfectly-trimmed topiary.”

“Topiary,” Billy mutters under his breath, face contorting while he tries to remember if he knows that word.

“It’s a type of...plant sculpture,” Goodnight tells him, knowing Billy would understand if he used Billy’s language, but those moments never end well with Goodnight’s heavy Southern tongue, trained to move prettily in French and Latin. Billy nods, expression relaxing in recognition, and Goodnight continues. “Behind the topiary, three times the size of that one back there, there’s a house, square and columned, every part of it white except for the black shutters and iron railings. A granite double staircase curves up to the porch. On the left wing, off the front parlor and grand dining room, was the ballroom with all its carved moldings and velvet curtains and marbled floors, and on the right wing was the conservatory and library. It’s a palace in the middle of fields speckled white.

“That was Foxsong.”

* * *

After a week of living at Foxsong, Augusta slipped out of the house one evening, papers in hand, and set out for the nearby cabin that had been set aside for Mammy and her family. She'd waited the week instead of going straight to Sam when Goodnight had given her the papers, trying to get her feet under her before she said goodbye. Even now that she knew she could be fine on her own, her heart ached at the thought of what she was doing, putting all remnants of her past life behind her. But this was what he wanted, and he'd been a good friend all those years.

Augusta hadn't even made it around the house when she skidded to a halt, and Sam backpedaled into the house’s overhang from where he'd come out the kitchen door. She gasped, “Sam! I was coming to find you.”

“What's wrong? You all right?” Concern etched over his face as he studied her quickly, his body immediately tensing, and Augusta rolled her eyes. She wished Sam would just relax sometimes.

“I'm fine. I brought you something,” she said, pressing the papers into his hands. When he hesitated, she nodded, smiling while she tried to hide a grimace. “Go on, read them.”

Sam did as she said, unfolding the neat, thick papers. His face screwed up as he read the words, and he flipped to the next page, shaking his head, mouth falling open. “Miss Augusta, what…what is this?”

“You can go now, take a horse and ride wherever you want. I knew you wouldn't leave without Mammy or Ruth, so their papers are there too.”

Sam shook his head again. “Miss Augusta, I can't do that.”

“Yes, you can, Sam. It's all right there, everything you need.”

“That's not what I mean—”

“Then what's the problem,” she huffed, throwing her hands to her hips. Sam was _supposed_ to just take the papers and go, not put up a fight; it would be easier if he just left. “You can read, you can write, your math is fine. There's nothing stopping you.”

“Do you really think Ma is going to leave you? Especially now that you're married and starting your own house?”

Augusta recoiled, opening her mouth to speak but closing it sharply when she couldn't think of what to say. Mammy had to go; Sam had to leave because that's what he wanted most in the world, and if Mammy didn't go, then he wouldn't either. “Well…I don't know, Sam, make her leave.”

A grin finally ghosted over Sam’s lips. “Miss Augusta, I'd rather wear red and go mess with the bull than try to get between Ma and her baby Gussa.”

Lower lip jutting out, Augusta scowled before she could stop herself, not rightly caring that she was pouting like a child when she was supposed to be a grown woman. She knew Sam was right, as always, but that didn't make it any better. This was the whole reason she'd asked her father if they could come with her, and it had all been for nothing. Sam chuckled lowly, a real smile spreading over his face. “Don't give me that look, Miss Augusta.”

“This isn't fair. I was trying to do something nice for you.”

Sam hesitated before he put a hand on her shoulder, but Augusta didn't flinch. “I know it ain't. But I'm beyond grateful for what you've done, and I won't forget this. You're a good woman, Miss Augusta. Mrs. Goodnight Robicheaux,” he added with a wink.

Augusta's scowl melted away; she could never stay mad at Sam. “Well…keep the papers, and if you decide to leave suddenly in the middle of the night, then at least say goodbye.”

* * *

“ _Belle-mère,_ Sacha should be here at any moment. Why don’t you sit with them, and I’ll have lunch with _Beau-père_ ,” Augusta said, attempting to give her voice a tone that left no room for argument as she tidied up the room. At first, it seemed like Goodnight’s mother would do just that, but after a moment, she rose and crossed to the door, patting Augusta’s shoulder as she went, unfocused gaze set in front of her. Augusta shared a look with Mr. Robicheaux.

“Well, now that we have no supervision, how about we—” Augusta threw back the curtains and then turned to Mr. Robicheaux with a sly grin. “That’s better. It’s too pretty of a day not to see the sun.”

“Tell me what it looks like out there, would you, daughter?”

“What it looks like? Oh, stars. Let’s see. It’s one of those days that you just know is sweltering hot, but it’s nice nonetheless. The sun is bright enough that the grass looks almost yellow, and there are all these wispy clouds hiding the sky. From here there are one...two...three fat ones. There must not be a breeze whatsoever because the swing in the oak isn’t moving a bit.” Augusta shifted slightly, craning her neck, and then a smile involuntarily crossed her lips. “Oh! And there’s Goody in the north field, riding towards us. He looks so proud up there, back as straight as it can be. Bless his heart, he must be hot with all those clothes. I think he's coming to have lunch with us.”

“You're perfectly welcome to take your lunch downstairs. You don't have to stay with me.”

Augusta turned in confusion to her father-in-law. She may not have had to stay, but there was no place she'd rather be than with him. It was her duty to look after him, considering how his wife was handling the situation and Goodnight loved him so. “But I don't mind staying with you at all.”

Though his once-round face was now considerably thinner, and his laughing eyes were sunken back, Mr. Robicheaux’s droll mouth turned up in the kind way everyone knew, and he raised his hand from the bed to Augusta. “Come here, daughter.”

“I wish you wouldn't call me that. I don't want to upstage Val.” Augusta crossed the room to sit on the edge of his bed and took his hand.

“Upstage Val. Fiddle-de-dee. You married my son, and you are now my daugh—” A round of deep coughs shook his shoulders, and when Augusta came back with a glass of water, he was bringing a stained handkerchief from his lips. His hands trembled as he took the glass. “Thank you, dear.”

“I'm just repaying the favor,” she said, and refilled the glass before she sat back down. “Do you remember that? When you had the cookies with me at the church picnic?”

Mr. Robicheaux had a warm, infectious smile. “I remember a very upset little girl being denied a cookie by someone with no authority to do so.”

“Someone with no authority? Oh, you must not have met Oceane then. Otherwise, you’d know she has authority over everything.”

From downstairs, the piano started up with a skill that could only come from Valentine, which meant she had likely seen Sacha coming up the drive and was now attempting to act indifferently while showcasing her talent. They listened in comfortable silence while Valentine’s nimble fingers flew up and down the arpeggios, sweetly and more serene than she would ever be—not that she couldn’t pretend. Eventually Augusta said, “You have such musical children, Val with her piano and Goody with his voice.”

“And you with yours.”

“I carry a tune, but Goody...his is positively beautiful, though he never wants to use it. He’s so frustrating—”

“There’s about six people I can think of off the top of my head who you could be calling frustrating,” Goodnight said, lounged against the doorframe to his father’s room, and he grinned when Augusta and his father whipped around in surprise. “I should hope I’m not one of them.”

Mr. Robicheaux gave as much of a laugh as he possibly could without triggering a cough. “Well, son, are your ears burning?”

* * *

Augusta had wriggled out of Goodnight’s hold and made it through the adjoining boudoir into her room before she was retching over the chamber pot, grappling to hold back her mass of hair. For the past week, she’d woken feeling ill, but this had been the first morning that anything had come of it, and she’d laid in bed so long trying to decide if anything would come of it that she was almost too late.

She almost didn’t notice the big hands sweeping back the hair from her face, holding it low on her neck. As sweet as the gesture was, she scolded herself for waking Goodnight. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well it wasn’t one of your more graceful moments,” he replied, rubbing her back with his free hand. “Now you go back to bed, and I’ll have Mama come check on you when I leave. Can’t have you and Daddy sick.”

“Goody, I’m not…” she groaned, but she didn’t feel like arguing with him, and telling him over the chamber pot while she likely had vomit in her hair was not how she wanted to do it. Instead, Augusta let him help her into her bed. “If we’re being honest, I’d really just like breakfast.”

“I’ll have Mammy bring you something up. Do you need me to get you anything?”

“Just let me lie here a bit,” Augusta mumbled, endeared by his concern, but her head was throbbing; for the first time in her life, she wanted him to be quiet. She cracked an eye to find him looking over her with an expression that he might wear if his favorite book had just taken a bath, and she grinned, covering his hand with hers. “I’m fine, sweetheart, I promise. You go get dressed and let me lie here.”

“Gus—”

“Goodnight,” she insisted gently, knowing it would get his attention, “I’m fine. Go get dressed. I’ll be up in a few moments as well.”

He blinked when she used his full name but took the hint, kissing her temple before he got up. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Augusta gave him a soft smile as he left through the boudoir; her sweet, caring husband, sharp as a whip but clueless at the moment. She closed her eyes, hoping it would calm down her head, and yielded to the drowsiness.

She was woken next by the sound of her door opening, and when she opened her eyes, her mother-in-law, the beautiful, fair-haired Francine Robicheaux stood over her, something between a smile and a smirk on her lips, her sharp eyes scanning over Augusta, not missing a thing. She pressed her hand to Augusta’s forehead after a moment, like it was a second thought, and then put her hands on her hips. In a tone that implied it was more of a formality, she asked, “You are not sick, are you?”

“I’m certain that’s not what this is,” Augusta relented with a deep breath. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

Her mother-in-law sat down next to her, asking, “How long? Do you look different?”

“I feel like I do, but he hasn’t said anything.” Augusta glanced down at herself. She was certain she’d gained weight, and she hadn’t been doing anything differently since the wedding except _that_ ; when she really thought about how much she had been doing—what with trying to keep track of not only Goodnight, who was her true duty, but his parents and sister as well—she would have thought she’d be losing weight, but it seemed like every day that she had a harder time tightening her corset.

Seeming to be fully aware of her surroundings, Mrs. Robicheaux waved Augusta over to the dressing table and shook out Augusta’s hair. For the first time since they’d come home, Augusta watched as her mother-in-law’s face broke into a wide smile, and she bit down on her lip. “This will be good for him.”

When she had Augusta’s hair halfway up, she said, “I just wish whatever you have could meet his granddaddy. Goody never met my daddy, he died in Texas, you know.”

Augusta knew very well that Goodnight’s grandfather had fought at Texas, and while she didn’t particularly care about hearing about a man he’d never met, she couldn’t ignore the look on Mrs. Robicheaux’s face. If this was what it took to get Mrs. Robicheaux to like her, then she would listen all day about Goodnight’s grandfather. “No, I didn’t know that. How very honorable of him.”

* * *

“That your wife?”

Surrounded by the work song from the fields, Goodnight followed the overseer’s gaze towards the house to find a small, lone figure making its way towards them, leaned to one side to balance out the basket in hand. “Looks like it.” He tossed his reins to the other man and hopped off his horse.

“What are you doing out here?”

Grinning breathlessly, obviously proud of her trek with the basket, Augusta shifted her basket to the other hand and leaned the opposite way. “I thought I'd bring you lunch.”

With a surge of adoration and pride, Goodnight pressed a kiss to her temple, taking the basket from her and nearly dropping it, surprised at the weight. He carried it in one hand while he put the other on her back. “Well, while you're here, this is John March, the overseer. March, this is my wife, Augusta.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Robicheaux?” A slight, flighty man with shifty eyes and a mop of dark hair in his face, he tipped his head towards Augusta, rocking in the saddle as his horse pranced.

“Very well, thank you.”

Augusta’s smile seemed to have no effect on Marsh, who turned without another word to her. “Mr. Robicheaux, I’ll send your horse up to the house if you’d like me to.”

Offended on Augusta’s behalf, Goodnight frowned but nodded once, saying he would be back after lunch. It was then, turning back to Augusta to find her gazing behind him warily, that Goodnight noticed the fields had gone quiet, and he spun on his heel to find all of the workers staring their way, craning their heads this way and that. Faintly whispers of “the new missus” floated through the air.

Goodnight replaced his hand on her back, urging his wife forward, and the overseer shouted, “Back to work!”

When they had made it an adequate enough distance, Goodnight dropped his hand to take her own, swinging it between them merrily, thankful she had provided him an escape. He may have been able to talk to anyone and anything, but the overseer, laconic and a bit churlish, did not make for even a good listening companion, and after his slight to Augusta, Goodnight didn’t think he’d sign another contract for the man after the year was up. “What did you think of the overseer, Gus?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “He wasn’t what I would call friendly, but...I don’t know him. I wasn’t offended, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Coming upon a log, Goodnight changed the hold of his hand to help her balance atop it, and he hoped she wouldn’t turn to see him grimacing in anxiety that she would slip. But she didn’t slip, just danced along in the air beside him, making him more and more nervous as she pranced until her feet were level with his head. “I’ll be able to see up your skirts, Mrs. Robicheaux, if you go any higher.”

“Heavens,” Augusta deadpanned in perfect imitation of her sister, cocked eyebrow and everything. Glancing at him playfully from the corner of her eye, she grinned and pivoted towards him, extending her other hand so that he could help her down, which he did, holding her close to him as he spun her in a circle, letting her skirts billow around them. When she was on the ground once more, Goodnight pressed his face close to hers while she murmured, “How could I ever let you do that?”

“You’re in a mood today.”

“Promise you won’t be mad at me?” Goodnight shook his head. “Well, it’s highly likely I’ve gotten out of chaperoning your sister this afternoon for the second time, and while she may not be happy about it, I think I deserve congratulations.”

“Oh, I see how it is. You don’t care about your poor old husband at all, not—”

“Stop it, you. You know I love you.” Before she could let her fingers slip from his hands, Goodnight was following along behind her again. “This was the third time this month that she's told me Sacha was calling and she hoped I'd sit with them.”

“Third time in a month? Someone is dedicated, all right, near forty miles to the Castex place. But don't let her bully you. She's terrible about that.”

“I'm not.” Uncharacteristically harsh, a scowl graced her lips for a moment until she realized what she was doing, and her face softened. More hushed, she said, “She's not being a bully. I can handle it.”

Knowing she had interpreted his comment to mean his sister would trample over her like Oceane, he dropped her hand and snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “That's not what I meant. You've seen how selfish and manipulative she can be.”

“Well I don't think she'll be speaking to me for the rest of the day, but I hope she's learned her lesson. I wouldn't mind chaperoning if she'd ask ahead of time. Besides, it'll do your mama some good to get out of that room.”

They'd come home to find Maxence bedridden and his wife in a stupor, never leaving his side physically but never seeming to be with him. She had proven to be of no use in nursing him, neither had Valentine, and the task had fallen to Mammy and Augusta. Goodnight glanced at his wife, waiting to see if she would elaborate but not wanting to push the subject, and maybe Augusta sensed that because she didn't.

They reached the willow, and Goodnight spread the blanket that Augusta had tucked in the top of her basket, sitting down and holding his arms open for her. She settled herself sideways in his lap.

“We haven't been here in so long, not since November,” Augusta said, leaning her head against his chest. She stayed like that for a while, twining their fingers together lazily, only rolling her eyes when he began pulling pins from her hair.

Satisfied by her hair now falling down her back, Goodnight wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her closer, burying his face in her inky ringlets. He knew he should be working, and Augusta knew it too and likely had just as much as he did on her plate, but there was nothing more he'd rather do than sit under the willow with his wife. Something about her quiet presence was calming; if he'd known his father was alive, Goodnight would have insisted they stay in Paris for a while longer, just so they didn't have to come back to the chaos.

“Tell me a secret,” she asked eventually, his fingers playing in her hair.

He had wanted to do this for nearly two years. Now here they were, under his willow tree, lounging away the afternoon, completely wrapped up in each other. “What do you want to know?”

“Where did you get your name?”

Goodnight hummed in response and then said, “Well, darlin’, that _is_ a secret.”

“That's why I asked. We're married and I don't even know.”

“I'll tell you what,” he said, reaching around to kiss her cheek, “when it comes time for us to name something, I'll let you know.”

Twisting in his grip so that she faced him, Augusta's face was suddenly much more solemn. She licked her lips. “Well, Goody, maybe…maybe that time is a bit closer than you think.”

“Do what now,” Goodnight asked, one side of his mouth twitching upwards.

“I'm not sick. That is—I don't have an illness, exactly.” She shrugged. “I guess it happened in Paris.”

Goodnight pulled back from her, frowning in confusion. _Happened in Paris_? What could have happened in Paris that required them to name something? The only thing that had happened in Paris was... _oh_. “Are you—you mean to say you're—you’re having—”

“Well it's not just mine,” she teased, mirth shining in her eyes, but she grinned like she was waiting for an explosion.

A baby, Augusta was going to have a baby. She would have all those tiny little fingers and toes and Augusta’s big eyes and cheeks, and they would name her Goodnight Augusta Robicheaux. Augusta would dress her in all the best, frilly little dresses, and he would be like Mr. Evercreech, famous for his beautiful daughter. He’d buy her all kinds of books and send her to a finishing school, and maybe she would love him, but he’d love her, that was for sure. How could he not love having little Augustas running around Foxsong? “We’re parents?”

“Eventually—”

Goodnight all but tackled Augusta in a kiss. He would be scolded later for missing the blanket and getting grass all in her hair, but he would deal with that as it came.

* * *

The great, rasping cough which had plagued the house for weeks crescendoed, making the two women cringe. Mrs. Robicheaux covered her mouth with her handkerchief and blinked back tears, turning her head so that she looked out the window and away from her husband. When her father-in-law showed no signs of stopping, Augusta rose to offer him a glass of water, but he waved her away feebly.

“Aug—Augus—” he gasped. Augusta ran a cold cloth over his forehead, but he took her hands in his.

“Yes, _B_ _eau-père_ ,” she answered, squeezing his hands gently, hoping her eyes portrayed the confident comfort she was aiming for. Stomach turning—and not from the baby—she swallowed hard, hoping it would rid her of her unease; she did not know where Goodnight was, and she had the worst feeling that he needed to be there.

Mr. Robicheaux heaved a shuddering breath. “Goodnight. Fetch—please. And Valentine.”

“Of course,” she said, masking her fear with warmth. Once she was out of sight, she lifted her skirts and broke into a run, making a dash for the kitchens. She had to get to Sam, he always knew what to do. When he saw her coming, he immediately dropped a handful of feathers from where he’d been plucking a chicken and ran to meet her. “Sam—Sam ride for Valentine. She's at the Verrets’ with Minnie. Tell her it's about her father, and it's urgent.”

“Is he…”

“Not yet, but he's asking for his children. Sam, what do I do?”

“Miss Augusta, you go find your husband and get him up to the house. Leave the rest to me. I'll fetch Miss Valentine and Mr. Rubadeau, they'll know what to do.” Sam was already backing away, headed for the stables, and with that, Augusta hoisted her skirts into her arms again, not caring if Sam saw her pantaloons.

“Upper west field,” Sam called after her.

Between her clothing and the southern heat, the journey between the kitchens and the upper west field seemed like miles, but within minutes, she saw Goodnight sitting atop his horse. “Goody!”

Turning on his horse, Goodnight searched frantically for the source of her voice. When he saw her, he wasted no time in spurring his horse into action, and Augusta only imagined the panic going through his mind. Without waiting for the horse to halt, he jumped off as soon as he was in front of her. “Gus, are you all ri—”

“Fi–fine,” she panted, strangely aware of how the field had stilled by her presence. “It's your—father, Goody. He's asking for—you.”

“Daddy?” Goodnight asked, voice hollow, face suddenly blanching, and Augusta nodded, biting her lip to keep from tearing up. She couldn’t make it worse for him—she _wouldn’t_ make it worse. Goodnight moved to help her on the horse, but she shook her head.

“No no, I can’t ride now. Just go, I'll be back soon.”

“I need you, Augusta,” Goodnight pleaded, sounding for all the world like a scared child. Augusta stepped into his arms as he reached for her and kissed him squarely on the mouth, not caring if the entirety of Foxsong saw them. If this was what he needed, then this was what she would do. She held his face, rubbing her thumbs across his cheekbones. “Gus…”

She kissed him once more and removed her hands, nudging him towards his horse. “I'll be there right after you. Go on, sweetheart.”

With one final beseeching look, which gave Augusta the urge to pull him from the saddle and gather him in her arms, Goodnight kicked his horse forward, and Augusta watched him ride across the field.

* * *

Goodnight had waited for Augusta on the back porch, trying to convince himself to go in without her but needing her by his side. As much as he loved his father, he didn’t want to watch him die, and if that meant not being there, part of him was tempted to do just that. He’d known she would want him to be inside already, but when she’d made it back, she hadn’t said a word but took his hand.

Cheeks flushed and out of breath, Valentine had arrived within an hour and, brushing past the house slaves gathered at the foot of the stairs, hurried to her father’s bedside to find her family waiting somberly, and she and her brother had exchanged doleful glances.

Leaned against the wall, Goodnight now stood by the window and watched his family. His mother merely sat by his father on the bed and held his hand, listening to whatever wisdom he was bestowing at his end, Valentine kneeled next to her mother on the floor, while Augusta moved back and forth about the room. She would bring him a glass of water when he coughed, sponge off his forehead, then return to Goodnight's side; and despite the situation, he felt a little surge of love and pride for his wife, followed by a wave of guilt at himself for not doing more.

At one point, Mr. Robicheaux took her hand when she offered him water. “We are thankful he found you, daughter.”

Eyes filling with tears, Augusta brought his hand to her lips. “I am thankful you consider me such.”

“I hope…I hope he will treat you well.”

All Augusta could do was shake her head, and Mr. Robicheaux held out a hand towards Goodnight, who looked to Augusta as if asking permission. Beckoning him over, Augusta rose to give him a place to sit.

He knew it was selfish, but he didn't want to sit down, he didn't want to watch his father die, but somehow he found his feet moving to the bed. Augusta put her hands on his shoulders once he'd sat down, her silent way of telling him she loved him, and Goodnight shot a grateful glance to his wife who always seemed to know just what he needed.

“I'm proud of you, son.”

“Thank you, Daddy. You taught me well.” He couldn't sit here and look at his father, eyes sunken into his head, struggling to breath. Goodnight's own breath hitched, and Augusta gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze to bring him back to where he was.

“Remember what I have taught you. And remember that she will be more precious than jewels.” Mr. Robicheaux closed his eyes, and his next shuddering breath took too long to draw. “We are all we have in this life.”

Valentine let loose a sob and buried her face in the bedside, and Mrs. Robicheaux covered her mouth with her handkerchief. As a few tears fell from Goodnight's eyes before he could help himself, he felt Augusta's hands slip from his shoulders, and he turned to find her drawing the curtains.

“Saints of God, come to his aid. Come to meet him, angels of the Lord. Receive his soul and present him to God, the most high,” she said, voice determined but quivering as she stopped the clock then draped the mirror.

“May Christ who called you take you to himself; may angels lead you to Abraham’s side. Give him eternal rest, o Lord, and may your light shine on him forever.” Turning down the two pictures on the dresser, Augusta finally came back to Goodnight’s side and replaced her hand on his shoulders. “Receive his soul and present him to God, the most high.”

All four Robicheauxes crossed themselves, and when Goodnight buried his face in his hands, Augusta took them in her own to lead him into the hall.

* * *

“There was one wonderful result of the funeral, Billy.”

Inevitably, Goodnight has started yapping again, now that Billy was ready to fall asleep, which must mean that Goodnight can’t and he doesn’t want to be alone. After so many years, that’s the only reason Billy can hazard as to why the older man gets so chatty so late at night. Billy doesn’t push his hat from his eyes, but to let him know he’s listening, mumbles, “What’s that, Goody?”

“At the docks in Paris, I let Augusta out of my sight for just a moment while I checked on our arrangements, and I came back to find her with a man selling birds. One of the cages had a pair inside, one blue and one green, and she decided that those birds were like us. There she went, turning her eyes up to me, and there I went, pulling out the money. That was the worst decision that I made the entire year. Jesus Christ, Billy, I hated those birds. Damn things never shut up. I called them Anastasie and Oceane behind Augusta’s back.

“During the wake, we had to keep their cage covered so they wouldn’t squawk.”

* * *

On the first night of the wake, Goodnight had decided he'd laid in bed long enough. His mind was moving too fast; it was moving too fast, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it. With Augusta asleep, he had no one to help him sort through his thoughts, and as much as he wanted to wake her, he couldn’t find it in him, knowing she hadn’t slept in over a day, spending much of the night talking with Ames and Mathilde about funeral arrangements. Untangling himself from his wife with a kiss to her temple, he put all his clothes back on except for his boots, which he carried until he'd closed the bedroom door.

It had been decided that his sister would sit with their father tonight, to give Goodnight time with his wife since Augusta had spent the past day in New Orleans purchasing mourning clothes. She had left a detailed list of things that needed to be done with Ames and Mathilde, who had stayed overnight at Foxsong, and for the most part, the family had been taken care of.

“You can go,” he told Valentine when he came into the parlor. “I'll stay tonight.”

“What about Augusta?” Valentine asked, though she was already halfway to the door.

“She's asleep,” he said, and sprawled out on the vacant sofa.

In a way, the parlor was unrecognizable. All of their photographs had been turned over, and the large mirror over the fireplace and the family portrait were draped with black crepe. The grandfather clock in the corner did not produce its usual steady tick, and the blanket over the bird cage kept the infernal creatures quiet. The parlor was unusually cold and hushed, but Goodnight supposed it was fitting.

They'd known this day was coming, but that didn't stop him from feeling any less about it.

Maxence had been a giant in the community, as was necessary with the Robicheaux name. His enemies were none, but his friends were bountiful; never had he seen his father meet a stranger, nor had he ever let someone who needed help go. He’d funded most of the building of the church and helped the DuBoises back to their feet when their lower field caught fire. He’d been godfather to the entire Jarreau family. He’d been known all around for his soft heart and wise advice. And to his family, he’d been the complete backbone of the Robicheaux clan, a loving husband, and a mentor to his children.

How could he ever live up to his father?

He could have sat there an hour or just a few minutes when the light of a candle appeared in the hall, then came the soft padding of footsteps, and Augusta leaned on the doorframe. “Would you prefer me to go back upstairs?”

“That’s your decision,” he answered quietly, and Augusta’s lips twitched.

“You know I’ll always choose you,” she said and padded over to him, settling herself under his arm, head on his chest, though he could see the dark circles forming under her eyes, which had been bloodshot when they went to bed. Goodnight pressed his face into her shoulder, letting her hair tickle his nose, and breathed in her scent for clarity. They’d only spent the day apart, but after they day he'd had, it had felt like a week. “You were not sleeping well?”

“My mind is going too fast. Did I wake you?”

“No, there was an empty spot where you're supposed to be.” Brushing her thumb over her lips, Augusta hummed softly when Goodnight kissed her fingers. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Of course there’s you. I can’t get you off it,” he teased, wanting partially to lighten the mood and mostly to let her sleep, but Augusta just kept looking at him with those big, lovely doe eyes. “My daddy was such an influence. He’s left these massive footprints, Gus, and I don’t know how I can ever fill them. And we’re having a baby, and...what do I know about daughters?”

“Daughters? No, Goody, this is a boy,” Augusta stated plainly, turning her face up to him just enough that he could see those big green eyes, not a trace of joking in them.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. I know this is a boy, he is inside me, after all. And before you start in again, we are not naming him Goodnight Augustus. End of that story. And we’re not naming him Horatio or Iago or Banquo either.”

Goodnight sniffed, “Well, you’re not leaving us many options, are you?”

But they shared a smile, small as it may have been, and Goodnight re-situated himself so that she would be more comfortable. Again he pressed his face into her hair. In less than six months, he’d gotten engaged, been married, discovered he would be a father, and lost his own, and Augusta had been behind him through it all. She had taken everything in stride and done what was needed to get by.

“My daddy used to give the best advice except…he'd tell me that a woman is like a gun. If you take care of her, she's going to shine.” When he let out a shaky breath, Augusta must have thought he was crying and turned him to look at her, but she found him with his lopsided smile. “I thought it was good advice at first, but now…I'm not so sure I like having you compared to a gun.”

“I know where you get your metaphors now.”

* * *

Goodnight knew he was getting underfoot, but Augusta was too patient to tell him otherwise. He’d followed her around the entire day, watched while she helped Mammy hem Valentine’s dress, and before they’d even made it to lunch, he’d lost count of how many times she had bumped into him. Ames and Mathilde were doing their best to make arrangements, but he figured Augusta needed to keep herself busy, no matter how much Mathilde fussed at her that _she was handling things_.

Now he leaned against the doorframe while Augusta, with only a small space with which to work, hunkered over the table in the back parlor, carefully tying a black ribbon to a yew wreath. Around her wreath, Goodnight’s mother and sister had left flowers scattered across the table from where they’d been attempting to make a wreath of their own for the vault before Valentine had fled in tears from the room.

Hands on her back, Augusta raised up, her face contorting in discomfort, though she tried to hide it when she noticed he was watching. “Can I do anything,” Goodnight asked quietly, wishing he had some way to keep himself occupied, wishing he could be like Augusta and make himself productive. At least then he would stay out of Augusta’s way.

“Take this and hang it on the door, please. I’ll clean this up, and we can get ready for dinner,” she said, passing him the wreath, and brushed off her hands.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Mathilde exclaimed, sweeping into the room. Even with the bleak mood of the house, and despite keeping herself in check, she still carried a vibrant energy with her. Like Augusta, Mathilde’s hair fell haphazardly from her bun. She flapped her hands at both Augusta and Goodnight, shooing them from the room. “Augusta Robicheaux, you keep working, and there’ll be no reason for me to be here. Goody, you can put that on the door, but you, ma’am, you’ve done enough for the day. Go lay down before I skin you.”

Goodnight grinned at how Mathilde Verret Rubadeau had suddenly been reduced to a woman with responsibility, and judging from Augusta’s hum, she found that part of their situation amusing as well.

* * *

It was only fitting that the service be held in the church Maxence Robicheaux had built. The church he’d refused to let be named after him.

In rows upon dense rows, carriages filled the lawn in front of the church, some of them belonging to families as far as Baton Rouge and Lafayette, and the priest opened the doors and windows to accommodate the crowd, which spilled outside even after they had packed together tightly. The family only realized this when they alighted from their own carriage since Valentine had faced forward for the first time in her life as they'd ridden to the church, not even bothering to peek out of the curtain.

Goodnight didn’t sing; he couldn’t bring himself to do so despite how much his father had loved his voice. He allowed himself a moment to marvel at the number of people who had shown up, and he shook each person’s hand who came up to him. Otherwise he kept one arm around Augusta and let her do most of the talking, all the singing, and hoped the day would go by quickly.

* * *

“Whoo, that was the last of them. I'll tell you what, that Mrs. Jarreau, she can talk and talk and talk, and you'd never imagine when Olive and Opal are so dumb in both senses of the word. Liked to never have gotten her in the carriage. But you know what? She did complement our painting in the front hall there,” Augusta chattered from against the porch railing, finally ridding Foxsong of mourners.

“That's because it's a wonderful painting.” He thought his wife made quite the picture herself, dressed head to toe in black against the bright expanse of the property. She eased her hat off her head, pulling a hairpin with it, and he smiled, close-lipped and gentle with fondness as she closed her eyes in frustration when a chunk of her hair fell too. Picking up the pin with only minor difficulty from her stomach, which she had not grown used to, she held it out to him.

“Can you figure out where it goes?”

Goodnight jerked his head for her to sit next to him on the swing. After a moment’s study, he tried to imitate how Mammy had done the rest of her hair, and when he'd taken his hands away, he grimaced. “I'm afraid I'll need more practice before you let me out into respectable society.”

“Oh, I don't care what it looks like. Anything to get it off my neck.”

“I managed that much,” he said, and she turned in her seat so that she faced him. In the brief moment that they shared a look, Goodnight knew she was reading him fully, understanding everything that was going on inside his mind that he wasn't saying, and he could see her eyes asking him, _What do you need from me?_

He didn't realize when he was taking hold of her hands anymore; it had become another everyday movement when he was with her, like taking his hat off when he went inside or patting his horse’s neck when he dismounted. “Sit with me here, darlin’?”

Augusta settled into the crook of his arm with her back against his chest, and he draped his arm over her shoulders, letting their fingers mingle together. He gently rocked them back and forth with one foot, and pressed his face into her neck, saying, “It's been a long day.”

“A bad day?”

He inhaled deeply. They'd placed his father in the western corner of their property, where all the other past masters and mistresses of Foxsong rested in crypts, and the whole ordeal had made everything so final. For months, they'd been playing pretend that Goodnight was in charge and Augusta was the lady of the house, but now…He was never going to be able to ask for his father’s advice or hear his sparkling laughter. The torch had been passed to him, and now it was Goodnight's turn to carry the Robicheaux legacy.

Palm flat against her head, Goodnight smoothed down her flyaway curls and basked in her form in his arms. She hadn't moved from his side all day, unless it had been to take care of something that had set his mother or sister to tears. “For what it's been, it hasn't been that bad.”

“I love you, Goody,” she sighed, nestling herself further in his grip.

“ _Jamais je ne t'oublierai,”_ he murmured in response.

It was nearing dusk when Ames and Mathilde appeared. Judging from how heavy her head had become on his chest, Augusta had long since fallen asleep, but she roused herself when Goodnight shifted.

“We were about to head home. Is there anything we can get you,” Ames asked, a picture of earnestness, leaning against the side of the house. In all their years of friendship, Goodnight never would have thought Ames would be one to seriously put together a funeral, but sure enough, he had pulled through. Good ol’ Ames, indeed.

“No, we’ll be fine. Thank you, Ames. You too, Mattie.”

Hand extended, Goodnight rose from the swing, but Ames pulled him into a hug.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing against Mormons here; I just finished Hell on Wheels (watch it, I dare you) and got a little Bohannon-y with Goodnight. I mean, they were both Southern railroad men. Of sorts.
> 
> Also, period-typical racial slur ahead.
> 
> The songs are "A la claire fontaine" and "Lavender Blue" respectively.
> 
> Just a heads up, this may be the last chapter until after 18 February. I have a fundraiser to plan for that day, and I really need to focus on it.
> 
> Billy: Mid-October 1877  
> Augusta: January-August 1858

Their travels bring them to a town called Genoa in Nevada by the middle of October, their first time back in the state in nearly three years. It’s getting a little late in the year, Billy thinks, for them not to keep moving south. Billy isn’t one for the snow, though Goodnight can’t seem to get enough of it. If there was ever a moment where Goodnight was quiet during the warm months, those moments were few and far between, but they are nothing in comparison to the winter.

It’s endearing enough.

“Look at us, we’re like a flock of goddamned birds, Billy, trying to find some toasty piece of land before our feathers freeze, and now we’re stuck with a bunch of Mormons.”

At the moment, Goodnight has nothing decent to say. He’s grumbled about Mormons ever since Billy mentioned wintering in Utah, and now that they’re in a town that used to be named Mormon Station, he really hasn’t stopped. It’s something Billy uses for his own personal comedy, knowing that if he mentions anything about Utah or the Mormons, Goodnight will be muttering under his breath for the rest of the day—something from his time with the railroads.

The night is decent enough that they don’t have to spend the money on a hotel, even though Goodnight insists on the splurge, arguing with Billy who wants to wait until it’s absolutely too cold to sleep outdoors; they compromise and wait until the next day to get a room, setting up camp just outside town. They eat the last of their stockpile around the fire and settle back against their saddles afterward, gazing up at the stars. Orion looms above, the only constellation Goodnight had said Augusta could ever find no matter how many times he pointed them out. Billy doesn’t tell him it’s the only one he can find too.

“’Fifty-seven was a chaotic year, Billy. I got married, Hattie Verret married some fellow from around Lafayette soon after we came home, Daddy died, and Val decided to let Sacha Castex—you remember him, his family threw the ball where Gus nearly killed herself—come seriously calling. And that next January…turned out I was wrong.

“I had a boy. A girl too, though she came a while later. He came that January after my daddy died. Those nine months, Gus and I used to argue about what name to choose. I wanted Goodnight Augusta, but she was not having that. She'd say, ‘We’re having a boy,’ and I'd tell her that was even better, we'd name him Goodnight Augustus. And then she'd say, ‘We’ll never be able to keep each other straight.’ I'd insist that we'd be fine, and she'd just say, ‘No.’ And that was the end of that conversation.”

Somehow Billy knows that this is a true story, not fabricated at all, and he imagines that his partner would have named his children Goodnight Augustus, Goodnight Augusta, Augustus Goodnight, Augusta Goodnight, and any other combination of their names had his wife let him.

Even though he grins, Billy doesn't know how he feels about Goodnight telling him this and thinks he would prefer to think of him just as an ex-soldier haunted by his kills, not as a man who had a home and family.

* * *

With the latest from Melville going back and forth between her face and lap, Augusta, now quite round, propped herself up in the library’s bay window. Goodnight had been attempting to look over the books and accounts, but she had yet to allow him five minutes of silence to do so.

“I thought maybe Mathilde could take Val to the Blanque party with Minnie since your mother and I can’t go. It would look terrible for Val not to be there, and you know she won’t let one of my sisters chaperone, not that any of them are good. She may as well go alone if Oceane takes her,” Augusta jabbered, lowering her book once more.

Goodnight took a deep breath, wishing he could add just one column without being interrupted. If this was anything close to what he was like, he needed to apologize to every person he’d ever met. But no matter how much she chattered, Goodnight couldn’t find it in him to be cross, just sympathetic at her ever-growing nerves. Slowly he turned around in his seat. “How’re you feeling, Gus?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said quickly, and it was all he could do to keep a straight face. Augusta was not close to being anywhere near _fine,_ having pulled the majority of her hair from her braid in the brief time since he had last turned around, eyes rimmed with dark circles. Goodnight could only assume his own eyes looked similar, having been occasionally awoken by Augusta in the middle of the night since the beginning of December, and every night since they’d arrived back in New Orleans.

He crossed the room to sit by her, tucking away a few of the wildest curls. His poor, fretful wife; she hadn’t complained once though. “Why don’t we go take a nap?”

“No, you’re working, and I’m reading.”

At this, Goodnight did let himself laugh, a short bark that dissipated when she frowned. “Gus, we are not doing either of those things. You haven't turned a single page since we sat down, and I haven't balanced a single column, so let’s go take a nap. You look like you could use it.”

* * *

If Goodnight sat in bed any longer, he was going to need another book.

He wouldn’t complain too much, though, not when Augusta had slept most of the day, and not fitfully as she had been doing, woken by dreams of something going horribly wrong with the baby and then in turn waking him in her panic. He'd lost count of how many nights he'd ended up holding her close and talking lowly until he'd lulled her back to sleep.

He turned the page in her book, _The Confidence-Man_ , his Christmas gift to her—after she had carried it upstairs with them, he had taken to reading when he couldn’t sleep anymore but didn’t want to wake her by getting up—and Augusta shifted next to him. One arm around her, Goodnight rubbed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head, which he was using to prop up her book, but it did no good to soothe her. She shifted again, face contorting in discomfort, and blinked open her eyes.

“My back is really hurting,” Augusta told him sleepily, eyes shut tightly again. She sucked in a deep breath.

“I’ll get you something if you’d like,” he offered, sliding a ribbon between the pages. By then, his little wife was very round and much less mobile; Goodnight hadn’t wanted to bring her to New Orleans, but she’d insisted that they come, arguing that it would be social ruin if Valentine wasn’t there, and she wanted to be in the city to have the baby christened. So of course, since Goodnight could never tell her no, they ended up in New Orleans.

“I would like—” Augusta began, before her eyes sprang open, the size of saucers, and her face drained of all of its color. She all but shot up, knocking her book to the floor. “MAMMY!”

“Darlin’,” was all Goodnight managed to get out, and then Mammy came running into the room so fast that Goodnight swore she had hearing like a dog’s—or at least when it came to her baby Gussa.

“Mammy!” Augusta shrieked again, sounding immensely like Oceane and squeezing the pillow next to her so tightly that Goodnight thought she’d put a hole in it.

Mammy took one look at Augusta before she shook her head at Goodnight. “Oh, Lord, Mr. Goodnight, you go get your mama.”

Under normal circumstances, Goodnight would have not hesitated in doing exactly what Augusta’s mammy said, but he was still trying to process how Augusta screaming for Mammy led to him needing to find his mother, and why Augusta looked so petrified. He couldn’t very well leave to find his mother when his wife was in such a state. “Gus, darlin’, are you alright?”

“Ba—ba—baby—” was the only thing Augusta could say between her thick, gasping breaths, and Goodnight’s mouth fell open. The baby was coming, his baby, his and Augusta’s baby. He’d known for months this was coming, but now that it was here, it didn’t feel real.

Not to him, at least. To Augusta, it looked as though it felt very real. She clutched tightly at her bodice, twisting it in her grip, and he hadn’t seen her face so ashen since the night of the Castex ball two years ago. Her chest heaved up and down rapidly, too fast for comfort, and Goodnight rushed to take her hand and tighten his hold on her. “Shh, _ma vie_ , I’ve got you,” he breathed close to her ear, hoping it was the right way to handle the situation.

Mammy’s nose flared at Goodnight ignoring her, but all her could do was pet August’s hair, not noticing that Mammy was speaking. Gone from Augusta’s eyes were all the things he’d come to recognize in his wife, replaced with nothing but pure panic. He pulled her closer to him, fear radiating off her like heat, and Goodnight felt powerless to do anything besides stroke her hair, already dampening with sweat. He turned her head towards him, placing his palms on either side of her face, and kissed where her lips usually were when they weren’t pressed together so tightly. “Augusta, _ma vie_.”

Augusta relaxed her lips when she felt his, and he leaned his forehead against hers. When she managed one deep, shuddering breath, he opened his eyes to find hers filling with tears. She whispered, “Oh, Goody...I’m so scared.”

“Hey, darlin’, you’ll be fine—”

“I’m so afraid something will go wrong. You know I’ve been having all of those nightmares, Goody, and I’m so scared. What if...what if they come true? What if he’s dead, or what if he doesn’t have all his toes or something? What if—”

“Oh, darlin’, _ma vie,_ those are just dreams. They don’t mean a thing,” Goodnight soothed, swiping his thumb under her eyes as a select few tears escaped. He struggled to think of another time when he had done so, and when he couldn't, he kissed her again, softer, trying to put all his reassurance into it.

“I’m so scared.” He could believe it, the way her voice trembled, how she clutched at his vest, as if attempting to stop him from going anywhere. “Goody, please don’t leave.”

Goodnight sat stock-still, unable to process what she had just requested. Men didn’t stay with their wives during labor…did they? And if they did, what were they supposed to do? He could vaguely recall squatting in the parlor with his hands over his ears but still hearing his mother scream when Valentine was born before a maid had realized he was in the house and shooed him out. If that was how Augusta would react, he didn’t want to be in the same room, having to watch her. But since his father hadn’t stayed with his mother and he’d already made Mammy angry, Goodnight doubted he would be able to stay.

In the hall, Mammy rushed into the room with a pile of towels, and his mother shouted for Valentine. When he didn't answer, Augusta pulled on his vest. “Goody…”

“Gus, you know Mammy won’t allow that,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t face Augusta’s full wrath if he mentioned Mammy. Her lip began to quiver, and it was all he could do to pry her fingers from his clothes as he tried to face her on the bed. “No, no, Gus, listen. Listen, darlin’. I will be right here until she pulls me away, and I will be right here the moment that door opens again.”

With his handkerchief, he dabbed at her forehead, kissing the faint white scar from the Castex ball. Augusta pressed even closer into his side, but all he could do was wipe away her perspiration and kiss her, afraid to move to even fetch her a glass of water. Goodnight ran his lips up and down her jaw and kept his face by her ear.

“ _À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener_ ,” he began quietly.

As he sang, Augusta slowly loosened her grip on his vest enough that he could entwine their fingers together, and her breathing calmed, though her chest still rose and fell heavily. She crushed his fingers every so often, though Goodnight assumed that was more from fear than pain. When he reached the refrain, he tilted her chin up so that she looked him in the eye. “Sing with me.”

“ _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_ ,” she quivered with him, “ _jamais je ne t'oublierai.”_

“Goody,” Augusta murmured after a long pause when the song concluded, head on his shoulder, eyes closed. “If I die—”

“Don't say that,” Goodnight chided automatically, but Augusta shook her head.

“Listen, if I die, then under no circumstance are you allowed to name this child Goodnight Augusta, or Goodnight Augustus, or any combination of those names. I am Augusta, and you're Goodnight, and we're the only Goodnight and Augusta that the world needs.”

While Goodnight laughed, glad that she had finally calmed down enough for humor, Augusta's face screwed up again, and she whimpered, turning his fingers white beneath her grip. He grimaced but teased, “Don't you worry, darlin’. I think Ames or Oceane Robicheaux have better rings to them.”

“I declare, Goodnight Robicheaux, if you do that, I will haunt you all your life.”

Eventually his mother came into the room, and outside, Mammy told Sam to keep him calm and out of the way. Goodnight knew their time was up. With a final kiss, he dabbed at her forehead one last time and swiped his thumbs over her cheeks. “ _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_ ,” he murmured, which she whispered back.

It wasn't until he stepped into the hallway, door closing behind him, and stood in front of Sam that the weight of the situation hit him. The color draining from his face, he stared at Sam as the contents in his stomach threatened to betray him. "My Lord. Gus is having a baby."

In response, Sam merely smirked and said, "We've got some of that good whiskey you like in the kitchen."

* * *

“When you read Homer, Billy, there's never any mention of the color blue. Did you know that?”

Billy shoots him a look that says, _Are you really asking me that question?_ Like he even knows who Homer is.

“Well. Homer calls the sky white, and the sea is ‘wine-dark.’ And maybe I've been looking at the wrong seas, but as far as I know, the water is blue, maybe black in a storm, and the daytime sky is blue. Clouds are white, but the sky? It's blue. And do you know why he never mentions blue?”

“He didn’t like it.”

With an eye roll, Goodnight says, “No, Billy. The Greeks never had a word for it. And that's what it's like to see your child for the first time. You can get relatively close when you describe it, but not exact.”

* * *

More bashful than he’d been since he was attending his first ball, Goodnight stood in the doorway and licked his lips, twisting his hat fretfully in his hands. Augusta laid on the bed, propped up by more pillows than Goodnight realized they’d owned with her hair fanned out on them, pale and dark-eyed but beaming as brightly as she had on their wedding day. In her arms, she cuddled a swaddled bundle.

“He’s slightly ugly and smells a little funny, but I have to say that I absolutely adore him.” When he didn’t move, she whispered, “Come see him.”

“He?” That meant Augusta had been right. They had a boy, his wife was holding their son, that was his boy in her arms, and he couldn't decide whether he wanted to rush over, or if he was too nervous to even peek at him; whatever he felt, his legs didn’t respond when she waved him over. He could only ask, “Does he look like you?”

Glancing up at him from beneath her lashes, Augusta pursed her lips as she tried to hold back a smile. “I just called him slightly ugly, Goody. If I were you, I’d tread lightly. Now come here.”

Augusta waved him over again, and, feet like lead, he shuffled over and took a seat on the edge of the bed next to her. When she held out her arms, Goodnight started to shake his head that no, he could not, under any circumstances, be allowed to hold the bundle, lest he do it wrong or drop him—the only baby he'd ever held was Valentine nearly seventeen years ago—but Augusta insisted on settling him in her arms, and the baby pressed closer to his chest.

“He's…wrinkled.” And tiny and red with a head full of straw-colored hair, and he did smell funny, but he was awe-inspiring. Goodnight moved the blanket just enough that his little hands peeked out, little hands with the tiniest fingers he’d ever seen, and for some reason he couldn’t explain, there was a wave of relief that all five were there.

For once, Goodnight didn't have the words to express everything he was thinking. His wife had given him… _this._ This was the one thing that was completely and totally theirs. Glad he wasn’t facing her, his eyes prickled, but Augusta noticed anyway. She laid her head on his shoulder.

“I was thinking Beau.”

“Beau,” he asked, finally glancing at her again, using his shoulder to dry his cheek. She didn’t have to speak to explain.

 _Beau-pére_ , _beau-mére_. Beau for his father.

* * *

“I prayed more during the war than I've ever prayed in my entire life. But when Gus had fallen asleep and Mammy had taken Beau from me, I went to our room, and I knelt at our bedside, and bowed my head. I prayed, ‘Lord God Almighty, my son and my wife, _ma vie_ and _mon soleil,_ please keep them in your hands. Please, let me get this right, let me do right by them.’

“There are so many things they don't tell you about marriage. Not the unreasonable sorrow from untangling yourself from your wife every morning when you rise and leave her in bed, or how she will never be more beautiful than when she's disheveled after giving you a child.

“And he was Sunday's child, bonnie and blithe and good and gay. Sometimes I'd look at him, laughing away without a care in the world no matter the situation, and I'd tease Augusta that maybe he was Ames’s. But he proved he was my son. We named him Beauregard Evercreech Robicheaux, but for a few weeks there, I thought we'd end up calling him Goodnight as well.”

“He was a good boy, though. Happiest child you ever did see, never cried past his colicky phase unless he scared himself. He’d run right through the prickle bushes without a single tear, but one time—” Goodnight chuckles at himself. “This one time, when he was old enough to go up and down the stairs but not to the point where he was very good at it, he took a bit of a spill. We weren’t sure if it was because of his skill or if the dog got under him, but he went tumbling down a good ten steps. I don’t know what scared me more, his fall or Augusta’s shriek, and I can’t think of a moment where she moved faster. But I’ll tell you what, he didn’t have a thing wrong with him, not even a bruise, just the living daylights scared out of him.”

It’s fitting, Billy thinks, that Goodnight’s son would have been that tough, judging from how his father is.

* * *

“We came as soon as we heard,” Mathilde gushed from the foyer the moment he came into sight, clapping her hand and muff together and hopping from foot to foot. “So tell us everything!”

“Shhh,” Goodnight hissed, coming down the stairs, surprised they were there. “If you wake either one of them, Mammy will have your heads.”

“Is it a girl or boy?” Mathilde insisted, tugging on his vest when he reached them, while next to her, Ames laughed, “Goodnight Robicheaux, you sonovabitch, just look at your smile.”

“I thought you two were supposed to be at the opera.” They were dressed as though they had been going, Ames's silk tie and top hat askew, Mathilde in a fine trailing ball gown and ermine furs, one hand hidden in her muff while the free one shook Goodnight's vest like the information would fall out if she tried hard enough.

“We were, but we’d hoped you and Val might show up. We—”

“We had to ask Salome where you were,” Mathilde snarled, and Goodnight chuckled, feeling like he should defend his sister-in-law but understanding where Mathilde was coming from. Perhaps it was because Augusta liked her, but somehow Salome had grown on him, no matter how she had snubbed his Parisian bonnet. “No wonder we haven’t seen you though! Oh, I can't believe we haven't come to check on you two, some friends we are.”

“It just happened last night. I haven’t been out because Gus couldn’t go out, and I hate to leave her cooped up here alone with Val and my mama.” Knowing he couldn’t keep them in the foyer, not with how loud they both could be, Goodnight jerked his head for them to follow him downstairs to the kitchen where their supply of alcohol was kept.

Sam and Ruth were taking their dinner at the kitchen table, and they both stood when Goodnight and his guests came down the stairs, Ruth ducking her head and skimping out of the room immediately, muttering something about checking on Miss Augusta. Sam began to follow, but Goodnight waved his hand. If they were celebrating with close friends, it was only fitting that Sam join as well; that, and Goodnight couldn’t deny that there was something noble, if not stupid, that Sam had stayed—not that Augusta hadn’t been tickled pink to have him around still. “Have a drink with us, Sam. If you get Miss Mattie here some wine, I’ll find us something with a bit more potency.”

Sam hesitated, looking just as uncomfortable as Ames and Mathilde, who exchanged glances and uncertain snarls with one another, but when Goodnight gathered the whiskey tumblers, Sam went to the wine rack as he was told. “Go on you two, have a seat. We’re celebrating again, Sam.”

“Jesus, Goody, you’re going to let this nigger have drinks with us? At the same table,” Ames scoffed, obviously slightly offended.

Goodnight, already seated at the table and ready to pour his second glass of whiskey, glanced up with hard eyes, doing a complete turnaround from how joyful he'd been only a moment ago. “Ames, this here is Augusta’s long-time friend Sam. You’ll do well to remember that.”

For a long, tense moment, Ames stared his friend down, Mathilde looking back and forth between her husband and Goodnight. Eventually Ames shrugged; there was a reason why he'd never given up whiskey for Lent. “Ah hell. Your baby, your party. So, do we have a godson or goddaughter?”

“You’ll have to take that up with Augusta as to your relationship with our son.”

Mathilde squealed, clapping her hands again. “Oh, tell us everything! Is he beautiful? What will you name him? And Aggie, how is she? May we see them?”

Goodnight downed his glass, and with a smile, Sam poured him another; they’d already gone through this process the night before. “Well, we’d thought we’d name him Beau, and as Gus said—and rightly so—he’s slightly ugly, but they grow out of that… Gus was terrified when it all started, but she’s fine now, real tired though. She was sleeping when I came down. Lord knows she deserves it after these past couple of months.”

Ames nodded solemnly in agreement but said, “We are the godparents, though, right? Come on, Goody, you can’t take this away from us.”

With a sly look to Sam, Goodnight shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with Augusta. I think she wanted to ask Salome.”

Uttering those words was worth it to see Mathilde’s nose flare.

* * *

The first two weeks went smoothly. After that...Goodnight thought he'd rather listen to Augusta’s goddamn birds than the screaming.

“This is my retribution,” Goodnight moaned, bouncing his red-faced son in his arms while his mother and sister looked on with a mix of pity and something else he didn't quite want to name. “The Fates have a way of paying you back.”

“What _are_ you muttering about,” Valentine griped, frowning magnificently over her magazine. “I declare, you shut up just about as much as he does.”

“Val, why don't you try to hush him,” their mother offered—anything to try her daughter’s maternal instinct, which had yet to rear its head.

“No, I don't like him,” she insisted, pressing back into the sofa like Goodnight might scald her at any moment with the baby.

“Valentine!” their mother gasped, aghast.

“Well it's true. I don't like him, or any other baby for that matter. I'm not having children when I get married.”

“Yeah, you see how well that goes over with Sacha.” His words made Valentine’s face redden, though it could have been more from embarrassment than fury; Sacha Castex hadn’t actually proposed yet.

“Why isn’t your _wife_ doing this? At least then he’d be upstairs.” Valentine buried her face back in her magazine, obviously unable to think of a good enough retort.

As much as he wanted to pawn off the wailing on Augusta, she’d endured it the entire night and the day before, and even though she hadn't complained once, her bloodshot eyes were guilting him. He’d taken their colicky baby in an attempt to let her rest, but something told him that Beau was echoing all the way upstairs.

Catching his mother’s eye, he noticed she had the faintest grin on her face, a rare commodity recently. Since his father had passed away, she’d drifted about, lost, not knowing what to do with herself, but Beau had given her a new task, a new way to occupy her time. “You were just like that,” she whispered.

“There aren't enough apologies in the world for this, Mama.”

“Give him to me, and I’ll take him to Mammy. You look like you could use the sleep as much as Augusta. Men never could deal with this as well." Not bothering to hide his relief, Goodnight passed Beau to his mother and made a beeline for the stairs before she could come to her senses.

After nearly a year, Goodnight had become incredibly adroit at not disturbing his wife while he got in and out of bed. He was completely prepared to slip inside, having already taken off his boots outside the door, but when he opened the door, Augusta’s tired eyes met him. She blinked slowly and asked, “Did he finally go to sleep?”

“Mama took him downstairs,” Goodnight sighed, flopping onto the space next to her. Without waiting for him to be fully settled, Augusta scooted closer and fixed herself at his side, head on his chest. Goodnight attempted to smooth her curls, and Augusta, throwing an arm across his chest, laced their fingers together.

“Goody,” she said quietly, a little slurred, after a moment.

“Yes, Gus?”

“I’ve waited a respectable amount of time before I brought this up again,” Augusta mumbled matter-of-factly, and Goodnight grinned into her hair. “Now I was named Augusta because I was born in August and I suppose my mother ran out of originality after naming my sisters, and Valentine got her name because she was born on Saint Valentine’s day, but how did you get your name?

Goodnight rubbed his hands over his face, wishing there was a better explanation to how he became _Goodnight._ He sighed, “Oh, Lord…I promised I’d tell you, didn’t I? I guess you could say I got it by acting like Beau.”

“How do you mean?” Augusta touched her cold toes to his shins, and Goodnight could feel their chill through his stockings. Or maybe he was so used to feeling her toes on his bare legs that he knew they were cold. He raised a leg to let her press her feet between them.

“Well, once upon a time, many, many years ago, my mama and daddy were in the very same predicament as us. They had a tiny little sprout who hollered and hollered his head off from the time he was born, and after about two weeks, my daddy said, ‘Go-od night, Franny, we’re never going to have a peaceful evening again, are we?’ And from then on, every evening, he’d say to the little sprout, ‘Good night. Please?’

“Sometime between then and my christening, I went from being a Francis to Goodnight.”

Tilting her head just enough to peek up at him from beneath her lashes, Augusta searched his face for any sign of trickery. But Goodnight did not possess quite the same mastery of weaving yarns as she, and obviously finding no deception in his features, she hummed quietly and turned over onto her other side, pulling Goodnight with her so that he was forced to mold his body to hers.

“So you’ve never been a quiet person. I should have known,” Augusta managed through a yawn.

* * *

When Augusta's bedroom door opened, she expected it to be Goodnight, though why he'd enter that way was beside her, but she hoped it would be a pleasant surprise to have Valentine closing the door behind her. Valentine had proven to be perfectly friendly when it suited her, such as when she needed a chaperone or was in _dire_ need of conversation; other than that, she left Augusta alone.

“Is something the matter,” Augusta asked, noticing Valentine’s hurried manner. Normally Valentine moved like every step was a dance, graceful and floating through the air, head high enough to reflect her family name but not so high as to be considered haughty, but now she frowned, arms drawn closely to her.

Making herself right at home, Valentine sat down on Augusta's bed, legs crossed and mouth pressed in a thin line. She wadded the sheets in her hands. “Can I talk to you?”

Augusta only nodded, not sure how to handle this serious Valentine.

“I think Sacha is going to propose. Actually, that's not true. I know he is, so long as Goody lets him,” Valentine said finally, releasing a heavy sigh. She looked at Augusta with the same sharp blue eyes as her brother.

Augusta tried to read those familiar eyes like she did with Goodnight, wondering if Sacha's proposal was a good thing or not, but Valentine was not as easy as her brother. She took a shot in the dark, “And you want me to persuade him to do so?”

“That's just it—I don't know! On one hand, I can't marry beneath me, but on the other, I've blocked out most of my other suitors. Can you imagine _me_ being an old maid,” Valentine huffed, rolling her eyes, but her brow was arched in a way that suggested genuine worry. “I'd have to start all over again if I truly said no. I'm already seventeen.”

“Well I was nineteen when Goody and I got married,” Augusta chuckled; maybe she was an old maid in Valentine's eyes. She placed her hand on Valentine's, trying both to get her to release the sheets and ease her worry. “Do you feel like he's beneath you?”

“I feel like he's the closest to our status that I'll get around here. He's nice,” Valentine conceded with a shrug after a beat.

“If you don't feel like he's beneath you, then he isn't,” Augusta told her, but she felt her lips involuntarily turn down. While prominent members of the community, Augusta’s family was not as wealthy as Goodnight's by any means. She had tried to tell herself that no one they knew was as wealthy as the Robicheauxes, but the thought didn't bring much comfort.

“How did you know to marry Goody,” Valentine asked suddenly. Surprised by the question, Augusta searched Valentine's face for any sign of dishonesty, but finding none, she tried to think of an answer.

“Well,” Augusta thought, shaking her head. “We just…got along. He was handsome and charming, and he made me laugh. He made me feel like my thoughts were valid. I loved him, and he loved me, and I knew he would take care of me. But Val…I can't tell you what to do, but if you think it's a good decision, I can put my two cents in with your brother. If not, I'll put my two cents in for that too.”

“He spoils you,” Valentine quipped, but she smirked in a way that said she didn't mean any harm. 

“Yes he does,” Augusta agreed, sharing a smile with Valentine. She wished Goodnight's sister could always be like this; this is what sisters were supposed to be like. And then she hoped that, since Valentine was in a rare, kind mood, maybe she would answer Augusta's own question. “Val, be honest. Does anyone think Goodnight married beneath him?”

“With you? Lord no! He struck gold with you. He would have driven anyone else insane,” Valentine snorted, tossing her pretty blonde head, and having amused herself, smiled before she sobered. She took a deep breath. “Augusta…I’m glad he chose you.”

 _Well butter me up and call me a biscuit,_ Augusta thought as her head spun, and she wondered if the world was ending. Sure, Valentine could be sweet when she chose, but that was downright saccharine for her. Augusta floundered for a moment while she tried to collect herself, but Valentine spoke again.

“I mean it. It was good for all of us having you the past few months. And even if that brat of yours did steal the limelight from my birthday, Goody needed him, and so did Mama.”

“He won’t colic forever,” Augusta defended, perfectly guilty that Valentine’s birthday had been overshadowed by a wailing baby. With Beau so young and fussy, they hadn't been able to throw a ball, but Mrs. Robicheaux had taken Valentine to find a new dress for Fat Tuesday and they'd had a smoked ham for dinner, which pacified Valentine enough.

A sharp retort seemed poised on Valentine’s tongue, but thankfully Augusta was saved from it by her door opening again. Goodnight jumped when he saw Valentine, and he stammered an apologetic excuse while he tried to leave. Valentine rolled her eyes; the resemblance of a cat catching a mouse reappeared. “Just come in, Goody, I'm leaving anyway. _Honestly_. It's not a secret you can't act like normal human beings and sleep in your own beds, you know. You aren’t fooling anyone.”

* * *

_“Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,_

_When you are King, dilly dilly, I'll be your queen,_

_Close we will live, dilly dilly, and when we die,_

_Both in one grave, dilly dilly, close we will lie,_

_If I die first, dilly dilly, and that may be,_

_You must live on, dilly dilly, thinking of me._

_If you die first, dilly dilly, maybe you will,_

_I will live on, dilly dilly, loving you still.”_

It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

Long curls cascading freely down her back, Augusta moved slowly around the room, barefoot even in the winter’s chill, bouncing Beau oh so gently in her arms with an expression of complete and utter serenity on her face. All felt so perfectly clear; this was the stuff of poets, what every eloquent word had been written about. This was what Goodnight had been put on the earth to do, to take care the little woman and the flesh of their souls.

If Augusta noticed him, she gave no indication but continued with her song. One of Beau’s flailing fists caught a strand of her hair, but the smile on her lips said she didn’t mind him pulling one bit.

* * *

Alerted by an ear-piercing screech, Goodnight and Augusta only had time enough to realize what was happening before Hattie, now Hattie Petipas instead of Hattie Verret, hurled herself through the crowd, pushing Goodnight out of the way, and latched onto Augusta's neck.

"I haven't seen you in ages," Hattie anguished, rocking them back and forth, and Augusta merely laughed, returning the hug tightly. Not long after they had returned from Paris, Hattie had married in June to a man named Louis Petipas from Lafayette, someone she hadn’t known longer than the past Mardi Gras season. But he’d had an exquisite estate, and Hattie had jumped on the chance.

"I've missed you too," Augusta said before she pried off Hattie. 

Breathless and overjoyed, Hattie brushed blond curls from her face and motioned for Augusta to spin. In honor of Fat Tuesday, Goodnight had returned home that morning, much to Augusta’s delighted disproval, from the dress shop and Adler’s with a magnificent damask-printed ball gown and matching amethyst choker, insisting that it was tradition for her to have a new dress. When she wasn’t fully appeased by that, he’d told her that it was so she could make a statement as her first time hosting.

"Just look at you, decked from head to toe in jewels and in another new dress. I don't know how you can keep your head up with that stone. Can you dress her up anymore, Goodnight?"

"If only she'd let me," Goodnight said, earning an eye roll from Augusta.

"She's not your plaything, Goodnight, and if you're not decent to her, I'll hang you from your toes, I swear I will," Hattie scolded, but her lips faltered out of her scowl just enough to let him know she was mostly teasing. When she couldn't keep her unhappy face any longer, she swatted at Goodnight's arm and turned her back to him. "Well, I guess every woman here will be wearing amethysts around her neck and her hair twisted like  _the_  Mrs. Goodnight Robicheaux's on Sunday, making their husbands match them, won't they? You lucky things."

"Don't be silly, Hattie, no one will want to take after me—"

"No one will be able to afford it. Good lord, Goodnight, was this thing really necessary," Mathilde asked, picking up the massive amethyst hanging around Augusta's neck. She shook her head. 

"You're corrupting her, you peacock. Whatever happened to my sweet, unobtrusive little Aggie?" Without giving Goodnight time to answer, Mathilde shook her finger in his face. "I'll tell you what happened to her—you married her."

"As my memory serves, you were quite in favor of our relationship, Hattie," Goodnight told her.

"That was before I knew what you would do. Look, you've turned her into something positively de-vine. What do you think she is, a queen?"

"My queen," Goodnight teased, just to watch Augusta blush and Hattie snarl her nose. 

"You two are sickening."

Goodnight opened his mouth to respond, but Augusta placed her hand on his arm, stepping partially between Hattie and him. She gave him a cautioning look. "Hattie, why don't you introduce us to Louis? We barely had time to make acquaintances at your wedding."

"Introduce you? Good lord, no! I was escaping from him when I saw you. You can introduce me to this sweet baby of yours, though. Ames and Mattie won't shut up about him, so I have high expectations."

Goodnight watched as sympathy passed over Augusta's face, followed by guilt, emotions he knew after having seen the same ones expressed whenever they spoke about Hattie. Occasionally the twin wrote to Augusta, never with anything pleasant to say about her new husband. While Augusta fussed about Hattie marrying a man she had no interest in whatsoever but whose house was the most beautiful of her suitors, she had yet to do it with a guiltless face. Goodnight could only assume that, after the twins had been instrumental in her own betrothal, she felt guilty that she was the one in the happy marriage, but Mathilde had no children and Hattie hated her husband. Augusta was funny like that. 

But Augusta brushed it off and asked if Goodnight would be fine if she quickly took Hattie downstairs to see Beau.

"Gus, the ball will not crash if you step away for a moment. I really can do a  _few_  things without you," he teased, and Augusta rolled her eyes but linked arms with Hattie. 

* * *

They’d returned home after Easter with Valentine engaged and a new baby. Valentine picked a day once a week to drive everyone up the wall with wedding preparations, but now he’d passed through his colic, the only sounds Beau, no longer pink or wrinkled, made were contented coos and laughs. Goodnight spent his days keeping the fields running with his new overseer, a much more pleasant man than March had been, while Augusta, with Beau always on her hip, tried her best to keep the house going and his mother and sister from throttling each other. In the evenings, the five Robicheauxes gathered in the parlor for Valentine to play the piano or Augusta to read, leaving Goodnight free to wallow in the floor with Beau.

Life was good at Foxsong.

When he heard Augusta stirring, Goodnight knew he had not been as successful at disentangling himself from his wife as most mornings. He was buttoning his pants when she rolled onto her back and regarded him through sleepy, half-opened eyes. “What's on your agenda today, Gus?”

Augusta rubbed her face, and when she brought her hands down, she'd somehow managed to wipe away the sleep. “Well, I was going to do a reading lesson and see how the one in the accident is doing before breakfast, and I have to get the cake made for the picnic on tomorrow. I need to check on Mathilde, she wasn't feeling well the last I heard. Oh—and we have to get Valentine’s trousseau fitted before she drives your mother to murder.”

“I don't hear my name in that schedule,” Goodnight sighed, abandoning his dressing and crawling back in bed with his wife. Augusta was much better about waking up than he was, but even she seemed to have no interest in rousing herself today.

“We can take a walk this evening, perhaps read a book. And you know your name is synonymous with lunch,” she murmured into his chest, throwing one leg over his, working to undo his careful untangling.

* * *

On the western part of the Robicheaux property, before Louisiana had been sold to the United States, Goodnight’s great-great-grandfather had built the mill and slave quarters, hidden behind a line of trees so that the less-glamorous inner workings of Foxsong would be invisible to its residents and guests. Goodnight preferred to spend his time among the fields and not the village, but no matter how much he didn’t want to visit, he still made the ride out there, toting Augusta’s horse behind him.

Surrounded by a horde of children, Augusta was seated on her blanket in front of the kitchens at the far end of the cabins. A sore thumb with his fair hair and skin, Beau gnawed happily on the watch hanging around her neck, and the two were engaged in a cycle of Augusta, not looking down, pulling it from his mouth before he picked it up again, which ended when she finally tossed behind her and replaced it with her finger in Beau’s mouth. Her blackboard beside her, she pointed to the different words she had written, and whatever the children were saying made her smile radiantly, nodding her head enthusiastically. Goodnight couldn’t keep his own grin from his lips as he watched them. 

Beau, not interested in the least with Augusta’s lesson, caught sight of Goodnight first and flapped his chubby little hands excitedly. Augusta tried to calm him by rubbing her hand over his wild tufts of dark blond curls; Beau may have taken most of his looks from Goodnight, but Augusta’s curls hadn’t missed him. His fingers furling and unfurling in a pantomime of what they did before they picked him up, Augusta finally turned away from her lesson to see Goodnight ride up. She shielded her eyes with her hand.

“Pardon me,” he said to the group of children, who all ducked their heads, “but I’d like a word with the schoolmarm, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Have I missed lunch? I’m not sure my watch is working after Beau got ahold of it.” Her easy expression melted away when she saw his apprehension. “Is something the matter?” 

“It’s Ames. He sent a message over just now asking if we’d come, something about Mathilde.”

* * *

“I-I didn’t know who to send for,” Ames, waiting for them on the porch, babbled when they were close enough to hear, and Goodnight understood exactly what he meant; no one ever knew who to send for when they needed help.

Unlike Foxsong, Aurore had only two floors, with the kitchens taking up the bottom one and the family living in the top; a double-staircase led to the main entrance, hiding the slave entrance below, and the entire house was surrounded by a porch. Instead of white, like most homes in the area were, Aurore had been painted a magnificent shade of yellow, complete with bright blue shutters and white trim, and under most circumstances, Goodnight thought it fitting that Ames lived in such a sunny home. At the moment, however, his friend was anything but sunny, his clothing wrinkled and his face sporting stubble.

“Shit, I haven't—ah hell, I don't even know,” he continued, and Goodnight and Augusta exchanged a worried glance; Goodnight had always imagined that the world could be ending but Ames would be laughing away and asking where his drink was. But here he was, coming apart at the seams, and what a frightening picture it made.

Goodnight’s horse hadn't even completely stopped before he'd hopped off and was moving to help Augusta down. “Keep him calm, and I'll check on Mattie,” she whispered to him as he put her on the ground.

Ames met them halfway down the steps, arms outstretched, still babbling incoherently, and Augusta took his hands in hers when she reached him. “Now Ames, I want you to take a breath and tell me what’s going on.”

Ames only followed half of her request. “It’s Mattie. She...I guess she got sick or something, but they haven’t let me see her.”

Bringing forth a surge of pride from Goodnight, Augusta patted Ames’s cheek and smiled warmly. “Ames, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to take a deep breath because you've yet to do that, and then you’re going to pour some drink, and I'll look in on your wife.”

* * *

Aurore’s somber housekeeper led Augusta down the long hall to Mathilde, and Augusta’s heart dropped with every step. She hadn't known Ames very well before he'd decided he wanted her to marry Goodnight, but she knew he was always bright. In the past two years, she'd taken to frequenting Aurore and learned Ames kept as merry a house as he kept merry of spirits. But now the house exuded gloom, and she rapped on Mathilde’s door with more hesitation than she'd ever known. Without permission, she pushed back the door just enough to peek into the room.

Her fair hair in a nappy braid and doing nothing to give off the familiar cheery air that always surrounded her, Mathilde was propped up on pillows, eyes swollen and rimmed in red. She'd always had a leaner face than her twin and an easier disposition, and Augusta had never known her face to be swollen and tear-streaked.

“Oh. It's you,” Mathilde whispered in a hoarse voice, and promptly turned her face away. 

“Mathilde,” Augusta said, immediately at the bedside, “tell me what's wrong, please.”

“I don't want to talk to you, Augusta. I don't want to talk to anyone,” Mathilde sobbed, erupting into tears, burying her face in a handful of sheets.

Augusta glanced to the door, hoping that maybe Ames—or anyone—would come to her aid, but when it didn’t open, she tried to steel herself. A distressed Mathilde was not in her realm of expertise. “Well, then, let's sit here and cry.”

This earned a choked laugh from Mathilde, who turned one eye towards her friend. “You never cry.”

 _Not true_ , Augusta almost said, but she stopped herself when she realized Mathilde would never believe her. She squeezed herself into the space next to Mathilde and pulled her friend to her. “What happened?”

“I lost it,” Mathilde whispered. “I hadn’t told Ames yet because I was so scared this would happen, we'd been married for so long.”

Augusta mulled over what Mathilde had said before she understood. She had thought she was coming over to nurse her ill friend, not comfort her after a tragedy, and she felt highly unprepared to say the least. “Oh. Mattie...you poor thing. Mattie, I’m so sorry.”

Mathilde launched into a new round of tears, clutching Augusta to her as she buried her face in Augusta’s chest, and Augusta stroked her disheveled braid. “He’ll leave me, Augusta. This proves I can’t have children. When he finds out, he’ll leave me, I just know it,” she sobbed, frighteningly close to hysterics.

Augusta reeled back in surprise, snarling before she realized it. “Mathilde Rubadeau, how could you ever say such a thing?”

If Mathilde hadn’t seemed so serious, Augusta thought she would probably laugh. Ames would leave her, _indeed_. Ames would read the entire Robicheaux library before he even considered hosting the idea of leaving Mathilde. It had been an unspoken, unanimous decision that there hadn’t been another couple in the three surrounding parishes who had been better suited to each other, and while Ames may have taken his time in proposing, there had never been a doubt in anyone’s mind that he would do it. After Mathilde had made her debut and been introduced to Ames that night, no other gentleman had bothered to compete.

“I can’t do my job. He’s not going to want me,” Mathilde insisted, shaking her head and tugging Augusta back to her.

“Mathilde, don’t be silly. Ames adores you, and he’s not going to leave you. Why else do you think he would let you run him wild? You should see him right now, all ragged with worry. He loves you.” Augusta pried Mathilde from her dress and wiped Mathilde’s eyes with her handkerchief. Her poor, beautiful friend, much more a sister than any of her blood ones. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to comb your hair and put it in a fresh braid, and then I’m going to go get Ames—”

“Augusta—”

“Listen to me,” Augusta said firmly, cupping Mathilde’s cheek. “You have to tell Ames. This is...this is nothing short of a tragedy, and he deserves to know. He’s your husband, he’s the only one who can make it right.”

Mathilde’s lip quivered, but she nodded and sat up so that Augusta could get to her hair. As she was unravelling Mathilde’s braid, Augusta said, “And Goody and I still expect you for dinner on Thursday.”

Mathilde winced when Augusta hit a particularly rough snarl. And then, so quietly that Augusta barely heard her even though it was only the two of them, Mathilde said, "Ames and I...we weren't chaste when we got married, not like you and Goodnight. Do you think that's why?"

Augusta was glad that Mathilde couldn't see her face. "No," she said, unable to keep the ache from her voice, "no, Mattie, I don't. Sometimes bad things just happen to good people."

* * *

That evening, with Mrs. Robicheaux and Valentine working on the wedding dress, Goodnight laid on the parlor floor and held Beau above him in the air while his son cackled with nothing less than delight. Across the room, Augusta used the last bit of waning sunlight to stitch the knees of Beau’s pants, which he had promptly crawled through, and reattach the shoulder to Goodnight’s shirt, a feat Goodnight had not been able to explain.

“If I couldn’t have children, would you stay with me?”

Goodnight did a double-take at the sudden question, and his expression must have amused Beau because the child thwacked him on the forehead with a chortle. Augusta’s lips didn’t break into her usual grin but stayed in a worried line. “What demon has possessed you that you'd ask such a thing?”

“I just…” Augusta trailed off, shaking her head. She hurriedly picked up her sewing. “Never mind. I don’t know why I asked that.”

At being ignored, Beau thumped Goodnight on the forehead again, and while he made a face guaranteed to make his son laugh again, he couldn’t rid himself of the unease that surrounded Augusta’s question. Beau was wonderful, handsome with the signature Robicheaux blue eyes and Augusta’s curly hair, always sure to put anyone in high spirits—even his Aunt Valentine had abandoned her dislike after he was no longer colicky. In Goodnight’s own little world at Foxsong, Beau had become the sun that gave all of them life.

But without Augusta, there would be no _soleil_.

Goodnight looked fully at Augusta and lowered Beau so that he sat on his chest. Breaking her concentration on her sewing, he asked, “What did I say at the wedding?”

Augusta glanced back up at him, brow furrowing, and Goodnight raised himself to his elbow, keeping one hand on Beau’s back. “ _Ma_ _vie_ , my life—that’s you. I won’t deny it, we had a rough year, but I had you, and we got through it. Now we have a lovely child as a reward, and I love him more than I ever would have thought possible, Augusta.

“But I loved you when we didn’t have Beau, and I would love you with or without him.”

“ _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_ ,” Augusta mumbled as her neck filled with color, and she ducked her head to hide a smile.

“ _Jamais je ne t’oublierai_ ,” Goodnight returned just as quietly, and Beau burbled something in his own language to get Goodnight’s attention again.

“Daddy. Dad-dy,” Goodnight said slowly, knowing the chance that Beau would repeat it was slim.

“It’s no use. He won’t say it, and believe me, I’ve tried.”

The image of Augusta trying to get Beau to speak filled his mind. He could see her sitting there on the sofa with Beau in her lap, repeating “daddy” over and over with the hope that Beau would learn the word, knowing exactly how ecstatic Goodnight would be when he heard his name first. He couldn’t help but smile widely, and in return, Beau gave a gummy one back before he babbled:

“Ma-ma-ma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener--By the clear spring as I was strolling by  
> Il y a longtemps que je t’aime--I've loved you a long time.  
> Jamais je ne t’oubliera--I will never forget you.  
> Ma vie--my life  
> Mon soleil--my sun


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I let my hiatus go too long, but I'm glad to be working on this again.
> 
> Billy: Winter 1877  
> Augusta: Christmas 1858
> 
> Fun Fact: Christmas trees really began gaining popularity in the U.S. beginning in 1850. I'm not sure how it would have spread by 1858, but since things come slowly to the South, I'm going to say it hasn't reached New Orleans yet.
> 
> I'm ready for war.

“Did you know I was at Chantilly,” Goodnight asks, tired of the quiet. There’s snow littering his hat and his shoulders, and he pulls his arms closer to his body. Beauty of the snow be damned, he hates the cold. He’s old, and the sharp weather makes his joints ache, and goddamn it all, he’s a _Southerner_ ; home was never this cold, especially not to the point where there was snow.

The time he’d seen the snow—at least, the only time before the world had completely turned upside down—he had been too far from home, huddled around a fire sharing a single, worn blanket.

“Do tell,” Billy answers slowly, copying a phrase he’s heard Goodnight say often, likely glad Goodnight has moved on finally from griping about the temperature. Out of the two, Billy, with his quiet displeasure, weathers the cold much better, though his scowl is deeper than usual. They’re both ready to be boarded up somewhere out of the wind with a mug of something steaming in their hands.

“General Philip Kearny led Union forces there. Took a bullet through the hip that left through his shoulder, and he died before we could find out if Lincoln was going to replace McClellan with him. One of the worst storms I’ve ever been in finally put a halt to the fighting there. Lucky for them, too,” Goodnight adds. Chantilly had been the beginning of true hell, but at the time, he’d been almost fond of the area for sounding like it should be a plantation back in Louisiana.

Ahead of them, lights twinkle in the growing dusk, and the town of Santa Fe, New Mexico, comes into view. It’s not quite as warm or sunny as Goodnight would like to spend his winter, but they won’t be completely freezing here, and if they run low on funds, more shouldn’t be hard to come by. The railroad is also within their reach should they decide to go farther south, though they usually avoid trains, given Billy’s history.

Once, for a brief time, Santa Fe had flown a Rebel flag. “Ol’ General Kearny had an uncle who fought here,” he says, “back in the war with Mexico.”

The war with Mexico, where his grandfather had fought and where his grandfather had reaped a reputation to uphold. The war with Mexico, where more problems were gained than solved.

* * *

Sam pulled his coat tighter around him and watched the cloud puff from his mouth as he exhaled. Mr. Goodnight was a lot of things, but he’d never thought senseless was one of them. Yet here they were, inspecting trees in the middle of the day, both of them toting axes on their shoulders. He’d explained in his roundabout terms why they were searching for a tree, but Sam still didn’t quite understand.

“What do you think about this one?” Mr. Goodnight expected the fir with his hands on his hips, one jutted to the side and eyes narrowed in thought. He didn’t wait for Sam’s response before he shook his head. “No, this one is not fitting at all, too scrawny to sit there in the parlor. Our tree needs to be a belle too.”

Sam wanted to tell him that it would not be scrawny once they were getting it back to the house, but he kept his mouth shut and let him keep looking.

* * *

As irritable as she was, it could not be said that Valentine was not a dedicated worker when she put her mind to something. Goodnight had given her a bowl of cranberries, a needle, and thread, and told her to string the berries, and while she’d told him he didn’t have the sense God gave a goose, she’d plopped down in front of the fireplace to hog the warmth and done as he’d asked…or commanded, but he’d done so nicely. In the length of time since then, she had a trail of cranberries spanning across the floor and was currently threading the berries one right after the other. Augusta lounged the length of the sofa, stringing her own bowl of popped corn and feeding it onto the floor; she’d been kinder than Valentine in her response but uncertain nonetheless, and the glance she’d given him from beneath her lashes hadn’t gone unnoticed. But if she’d been asked her to do it, then by golly, Augusta would do it.

“Why am I doing this again,” Valentine asked, smirking but not saying a word when she glanced at Goodnight and Beau.

“We have to decorate the tree Goody was kind enough to bring us,” Mrs. Robicheaux replied with only mild mockery, smirking while she knitted, and Valentine turned up her nose at the fir tree standing in the corner of the parlor, which Goodnight did not appreciate. He and Sam had spent a good half hour trying to get the thing from the wagon to the parlor, and it was all because Goodnight wanted to show them how they’d celebrated in Charleston. The least they could do was not act like he’d tracked mud all over their clean floors.

“How about we get this done before the terrors arrive,” Augusta sighed, referring to her sisters, who were coming to Foxsong to celebrate Christmas and Valentine’s wedding. “And don’t worry, Val, we’ll have it out of here before the wedding.”

“Perhaps I’d like to show off our decorations,” Goodnight teased, though he knew good and well that was a battle he’d already lost. Christmas pacified Valentine into affability, but even Christmas would not put her in a good enough mood to let any part of her wedding be threatened.

“Then you may give them a tour of the paintings,” Augusta quipped back. Goodnight opened his mouth to tell her most of the guests had already seen their paintings, but he closed it when she gave him a look that said, _I have enough to worry about without Val fussing over a_ tree _._

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed with a smile, which Augusta mirrored before quietly returning to her work. Watching her, Goodnight knew that, after days spent fretting over Valentine’s wedding and her sisters, she was glad to have a mind-numbing task.

Which meant that Goodnight probably should not have done what he did.

He was playing with Beau on the floor, loading and unloading all his little wooden animals from their ark, pushing the silver train with Beau’s name on it around, making sure he didn’t fall off the rocking horse—Augusta had yet to ever be violent, but he was not going to test his luck—when his son took one look at Augusta’s garland and crawled over to it. He had done the same to his Aunt Valentine’s, but she had shooed him away before he caused any harm. With no regard for what his mother was doing, Beau seated himself under the garland, and before Goodnight could stop him, ripped off a piece of corn and popped it into his mouth. With a grimace and a lunge for Beau, Goodnight waited for Augusta to say something, but she didn’t seem to notice her son merrily chomping on her work.

Beau grinned up at him, and Goodnight couldn’t help but smile…or blame Beau for wanting a taste.

Leaning against the sofa, Goodnight situated Beau in his lap, picking off one piece for Beau and one piece for himself, while Augusta hummed “Silent Night” softly, unaware that her husband and son were making a Penelope of her. Beau snatched each piece with a slimy, chubby hand, and Mrs. Robicheaux, catching Goodnight’s eye, merely smirked again and kept knitting.

When Goodnight held out the next piece to Beau, his son turned his rosy little face up to him with an expression that made Goodnight think Beau knew they were not behaving, and he couldn’t help but chuckle and kiss the top of his head.

“You know, I really don’t—” Augusta’s voice snapped Goodnight out of his moment with Beau, and both glanced up with wide eyes to find her slack-jawed and glaring at them. “Hey!”

She pulled the garland from their grip, eliciting a scowl from Beau, to which she said, “Oh, don’t you give me that look, Beauregard Robicheaux. You two…”

Unaccustomed to hearing his mother scold him even gently, Beau whipped his head around as if to ask Goodnight for help, though he could only shrug. “Son, I’m in as much trouble as you.”

* * *

The other two families of the Evercreech sisters, as well as their parents, had already arrived and settled themselves when the sleek black Saucier carriage finally rumbled down the lane and up to Foxsong’s entrance. With Oceane and Anastasie, as well as all their children, in the house and Valentine seated at the piano, none of them knew the final sister had arrived until she swayed into the parlor with an expression that read she would rather be in Dante’s final circle than having to spend the holiday with her family. Half a step behind her trotted Dorian, looking a mix of frustrated and harried, one hand holding onto their older daughter and carrying the younger in his other arm. Her gaze sweeping over the room and effectively silencing it, Salome’s eyes landed on the tree, and her eyebrow shot up as she scowled.

Goodnight and Augusta had risen to greet them, but Goodnight, with his hand stuck out to shake Dorian’s, was stopped in his tracks by Salome’s icy, “Augusta, there’s a tree in your parlor.”

She could have very well have been saying, “Augusta, get this filth off me.”

As Goodnight opened his mouth to respond, Salome rounded on him accusingly. “You…” And with that, she was sweeping from the room, Dorian giving them an apologetic look, and she called over her shoulder, “Mammy will show me to a room.”

While the room sat in silence, adjusting themselves to Salome’s presence, Goodnight caught Valentine’s eye, and, smirking, she mouthed, _Such a joy._ Goodnight mouthed back for her to stop it, and she giggled to herself, spinning on the bench to face the piano again. Next to him, Augusta sighed, and he put a hand on the small of her back to guide her to where they’d been seated on the sofa. “Darlin’, I don’t think she liked our tree.”

“Goody, I’m not sure _I_ like our…parlor tree,” Augusta conceded. Goodnight flopped onto the sofa and threw his hands into the air.

“This is the thanks I get for trying to bring a little culture into the house.”

Augusta frowned, and in her eyes, he read, _You didn’t bring culture, silly, you brought a tree._

“Well, Goody, I like the parlor tree,” Valentine said over her shoulder. “If Salome doesn’t like it, maybe she won’t come in here.”

“Stop it, Val,” he said, but not before he could wipe the smile off his face; he didn’t feel half as bad when Augusta hummed in amusement.

Valentine tossed her pretty head, and Goodnight swore he heard her mutter under her breath, “If only Oceane didn’t like it.”

* * *

Like usual, Ames and Mathilde made themselves heard before they were seen, arriving just before dinner with enough ruckus to overshadow the three sisters. How they’d been able to be convinced to attend Christmas eve dinner with the Evercreech family was beside Goodnight, but he expected Augusta hadn’t told Mathilde that her family would be in attendance, and judging by the look on the other couple’s faces when they opened the door, his theory was probably right.

“Augusta, you fibber, I can hear them,” Mathilde fussed in the doorway, nose flaring, and she held Augusta at arm’s length when Augusta tried to hug her.

“I don’t know how—”

“You said they wouldn’t be here, Augusta, and I can hear them,” Mathilde insisted.

“We should be more worried if we couldn’t hear them. And besides, we had to have you here. It isn’t Christmas without family.” Mathilde’s scowl wavered until she gave in and hugged her friend, muttering something into Augusta’s ear that made her tip her head back with laughter and kiss Mathilde’s cheek.

Behind his wife, Ames hopped from foot to foot, and when a sudden gust of wind threatened to blow off his hat, he hurriedly snatched at it with one hand and pulled his coat, which was oddly misshapen and wiggling, tighter around him. “Damn it, Mattie, can you go inside? I’m growing icicles on my—”

“Yes, yes, hush up,” Mathilde snapped playfully, though she moved aside to let him in. They’d no sooner closed the door than she was tugging at his arm. “Oh! Show them our gift, Ames.”

“I’m trying,” Ames huffed, though he was focused more on lighting his cigar. Goodnight watched him fumble, hands gloved, with his match before he took it from him and struck it. Ames nodded his thanks, and then set about to removing his layers. He peeled off his gloves and scarf, then his overcoat, and Augusta cried out in surprise.

“Ames!” she gasped as a furry little head popped out of Ames’s vest. Shaking itself off, velvety red ears flopping erratically, it turned its droopy eyes up to Ames as if to ask what had happened.

“Isn’t he pretty? Thought he’d make a perfect gift for Beau—look, we wrapped him up and everything,” Ames chattered as he pulled the puppy from his vest to show off the silver bow they’d tied around its neck.

While his wife cooed at the gift, coddling it to her chest, Goodnight rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. Only Ames would have thought a puppy would make an ideal gift for a child who still couldn’t get the hang of walking on his own and whose vocabulary mainly consisted of “no” and “Mama.” He looked back to the puppy, glancing sleepily around the foyer of Foxsong, and couldn’t help but smile at its little wrinkled face and oversized feet, remembering his father’s hound that he’d grown up with.

“We do only have hunting dogs, Goody, and he looks just like an Othello,” Augusta said when she caught his eye, her big eyes turned up to him imploringly, and Goodnight knew he was sunk. He reached out to scratch the floppy ears; those had always been his favorite part of a hound.

“One of these days I’m going to learn to say no to you,” Goodnight muttered, going with a playful scowl to fetch Beau.

* * *

Billy is good at many things. He can nurse anything back from the brink of death, and when they have the time, ingredients, and good fortune, he makes a mean bowl of chili—though it’s nothing in comparison to the jambalaya that Goodnight occasionally whips up, in his personal opinion. He can walk like a ghost and hit a target with his knife before anyone realizes it’s left his hand. But one thing Billy is not good at? Any sort of card game.

Hell, he can’t even hold them right.

Despite being hopeless, Billy never flat-out refuses to play even though Goodnight knows there are plenty of other things that he’d likely rather be doing, but on winter nights like these, when their options are to stay inside or catch frostbite, Billy is usually a bit more willing to play.

Billy lays on his side across the bed, propped up on his elbow and every pillow in the room, while Goodnight sprawls diagonally across the bed and rests against Billy’s legs, the cards in the space between them, both men keeping warm with sweet cider from the little landlady and the blankets stolen from the other bed. Perhaps it’s the cider—Billy would drink the town dry of it if he had the money—but the younger man is in high spirits. It could also be that he’s won a game.

His pair, the last one available, slaps onto the bed, and Billy says something that sounds like he’s congratulating himself in Korean. Goodnight can’t help but laugh, tossing down his joker, and leans his head back on Billy’s legs.

“Let’s play again,” Billy insists with a giant grin, already gathering up the cards in his awkward hands.

“Play again? Are you sure you’d like to test your luck? That makes one in…let’s see, the last time you won was back in Flatlake, and that was in March—”

Billy slams the deck down in front of Goodnight so that he can shuffle—the last time Billy did it, they’d lost two cards and ripped another—still smiling away. “What else are we going to do?”

“I don’t know about you, Mr. Rocks, but ’m content right here.”

“Goody,” Billy growls, still with a smirk, “I’ll shuffle these cards if you don’t sit up.”

Goodnight stretches his arms above his head, shoulder popping loudly—he’s really getting too old—and then raises himself back up. “You’re leaving me with no other option, then, Billy.”

* * *

When Goodnight went to fetch a bottle of cognac, he did not expect to find the library occupied. His nephew [Theodore](http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/Theodore.wav), Anastasie’s oldest, stood in front of one of the tall shelves, fingers skimming over each of the books so lightly it was as if he was afraid they would catch fire at his touch. He jumped when he heard Goodnight enter, jerking his hand back violently as if the books really had caught fire.

“Son, you keep jumping like that, and people are going to think you’re up to no good,” Goodnight said, paused in the doorway and unable to suppress a grin. “What are you doing in here? We’re all playing games in the parlor.”

Not that he could blame the boy from wanting to escape his aunts.

“S-sorry, Uncle Goodnight. My parents don’t like to read, and you just have more books than I’ve ever seen,” [Theodore](http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/Theodore.wav) stammered, dropping his gaze but still trying to look at the shelves.

Of course they didn’t like to read. Anastasie was as dull as paint. If she hadn’t been so comely, he would have thought she was altogether forgettable, and her husband’s idea of a riveting conversation topic was economics; a book would do them both some good. But her son was old enough that he could still be saved from her clutches. Grin widening, Goodnight crossed to where the boy was, saying, “You like to read?”

“When I can,” he answered, turning his face back up with a mix of hesitation and wonder.

_He has a reader’s description,_ Goodnight thought, taking in the boy’s owlish eyes behind a pair of octagonal eyeglasses and waifish stature. He moved to a different shelf and scanned the contents. “Have you read any Mother Goose?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Goodnight started to pull the book from its place when he thought about [Theodore](http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/Theodore.wav), pale and looking like he was likely subjected to bedrest on a regular basis. He imagined him confined to his bed, watching through the window as his brothers played with neighboring children, acting out scenes of Indian raids or fighting off alligators in the backyard bayou. No, Mother Goose would not do. “I have a better idea. Perhaps you’ve heard of Defoe?”

Again, [Theodore](http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/Theodore.wav) shook his head, and Goodnight smiled to himself as he picked the book he wanted, feeling very clever. “This is _Robinson Crusoe._ It was a favorite both myself and your Aunt Augusta when we were growing up.”

“Aunt Augusta,” [Theodore](http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/Theodore.wav) breathed, eyes widening as he looked up at Goodnight with nothing less than awe. “Aunt Augusta reads?”

“Why do you think I married her?” If Augusta hadn’t been the favorite aunt already, she had certainly earned the title now. Goodnight held out the book, which [Theodore](http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/Theodore.wav) hesitated to take. “Go on, now, I doubt you could hurt it.”

“I don’t know if I can finish it by tomorrow.”

“Well, there’s thirteen days before Epiphany. Think you can finish it by then?”

“Thank you, Uncle Goodnight,” he whispered, still with the book held out in front of him.

“I think we’re acquainted enough that I can be Uncle Goody, don’t you? I don’t see any reason why we can’t speak like men.” At [Theodore](http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/Theodore.wav)’s beaming smile, which pushed his glasses further up his nose, Goodnight patted his shoulder and moved to get the bottle of cognac from the desk. “Now let’s get back to the party. We wouldn’t want to miss any of your Aunt Oceane’s antics, now would we?”

As he closed the door behind them, Goodnight couldn’t help but ask, “Theodore, what do you think of our Christmas tree?”

“That thing in the parlor?”

* * *

As the adults tried to have a civil, decent conversation, the children had been playing noisily in the corner of the parlor with Othello, and their sudden silence was ostensibly suspicious. Anastasie’s boys were grimacing and wide-eyed, their cousin Posie looking pointedly at the floor, and Beau couldn’t have cared less with what was going on, his arms around Othello’s neck while the puppy squirmed, lapping at his chin. Without a word, every adult studied their offspring, but nothing seemed out of place.

But it didn’t come as a great surprise when Theodore’s face was bare.

“Where are your eyeglasses,” Anastasie asked, raising her head to look down her nose, suddenly losing just a bit of her beauty. She had mastered the art of passivity and knew just how to weild it to make her recipient feel terrible, but it seemed that even she grew annoyed by her skill until it built up and her aggressiveness came tumbling out at once. And if it hadn’t been building all night…Bracing for the explosion, Goodnight gripped his glass of liquour tighter and glanced to Augusta, who closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.

“W-we—they f-f-fell,” he stammered, and Goodnight likened the boy to a turtle drawing back in its shell at the sign of danger. He sent his best wishes.

And then came the explosion.

“You’ve broken them, haven’t you? Théodore, that’s the second pair! When are you going to learn to be more responsible with your things, or are you just too daft to understand—”

“Ana,” Augusta scolded without much harshness, tensing like everyone else at her sister’s words, holding out her arm to Theodore. “That’s enough!”

“Honestly. There’s no need to be a bitch about,” Salome snapped, tossing her head, her grey eyes flashing in triumph. She’d been too mild since her arrival, and while she would have undoubtedly liked to have lashed out at Oceane, the opportunity to fight had just fallen right on the floor and she would not be picky.

“Sal…” Dorian scolded, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had neither the energy nor patience to deal with another Evercreech sister argument.

“I beg your pardon,” Anastasie barked, now on the defensive, scowling between Salome and Augusta. “We all know the only bitch here is you, Sal—”

“Oh, I won’t deny it,” Salome shrugged offhandedly, a self-righteous smirk on her beautiful lips. Salome would never allow anyone the satisfaction of insulting her.

Face twisting nastily, Anastasie opened her mouth with what could only be another scalding remark, but Augusta cried, “I said enough! There are children here, and it’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake. Peace and good will, you two. Now Ana, I think you made your message perfectly clear, and I didn’t need your help, Sal.”

Salome had the gall to look offended.

Goodnight watched with fondness as his wife petted the nape of her oldest nephew’s neck, wiping away his tears with her other hand, and decided the ordeal had gone on long enough.

“He’s my son,” Anastasie insisted, as if that changed things.

“And you’re in my house,” Goodnight said, firm but quiet, in complete opposition to the strident voices the women had utilized.  All heads swiveled to him. “Son, come here and bring me your eyeglasses.”

Reluctantly, Theodore left his aunt’s side and shuffled over to where his discarded glasses still lay, and Goodnight urged gently, “Go on, get the lead out of your boots. I’m not mad.”

He sat down on the sofa next to Augusta and held the glasses up to his face. The right lens had a mighty fine crack running up the side, and the bridge of the nose was warped. “Well, son, it looks like we’ll be able to smooth them back out, but you’ll have to wait on the lens. Now dry your eyes, there’s no harm done.”

“No harm done,” Anastasie scoffed, and Goodnight looked over his nephew’s shoulder to her.

“I’d rather have something wrong with the spectacles than his eye, wouldn’t you? If my mama had lectured me over every little thing I broke, I reckon she’d still be going. He’s a boy, Anastasie, and breaking things is what boys do best. I guarantee you that the minute I start caring about any of the things in this house will be the minute Beau breaks it.”

Though nothing else was said, Anastasie glowered at him, and Salome glowered at Anastasie, and Augusta stared down Oceane as though daring her to make a peep. Theodore sniffed and took back his eyeglasses.

“Well. I do believe it is story time, Aggie,” Ames said, glacing around the room with an expression that said he was very much enjoying the show indeed. Though it was a relief to have a change in subject, Goodnight thought it was only because his friend enjoyed Augusta’s stories more than he did.

With a grateful glance towards him, Augusta shot to her feet and skittered towards a side table where a familiar thin book lay, its cover worn and beloved. “Thank you, Ames, that’s a grand idea. I know this isn’t an original, but this is my Christmas favorite,” Augusta said, settling onto the sofa. She fixed her skirts about her, and the children nestled at her feet, wide-eyed and eager, knowing their aunt’s claim to fame.

She flipped open the book, cleared her throat quietly, and in her narrator’s voice read, “‘Stave One. Marley was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.’”

* * *

When Goodnight passed through the boudoir to Augusta’s room that evening, his wife was scowling at her reflection in the vanity, still completely dressed and with her hair pinned up. Augusta had sent Mammy away just after dinner since it was Christmas, and Goodnight had readied himself for bed under the assumption that Augusta was doing the same in her room. Yet there she was, not even a single pin released from her hair. “You haven’t made any headway at all.”

“I just can’t believe she did that,” she muttered without paying him any mind, and, taking a seat on the edge of her bed, he didn’t know whether to be amused or inclined to agree with her over Anastasie’s outburst. “She was always fussy and particular, but she was never downright cruel. And honestly, even Salome agreed it was too far. Oh, they make me so _angry_. Christmas is a time for family, but why would anyone want to be with them when they act that way? Why do I even invite them into our home if they’re just going to be pains in our necks? I never want them here again, Goody, that’s for sure. After the wedding, they are _not_ coming back.”

“You need some help with your dress?”

Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring, Augusta spun on her stool with her mouth pressed in a thin line, and her hands flew up to her hips. “And just _what_ is your hurry about,” she huffed, but it lacked anger with him, and his jaw trembled in attempt not to laugh at her, lest he make her truly mad. He moved to stand behind her.

“Down girl,” Goodnight murmured into her ear with a chuckle, kissing her temple as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. When Augusta didn’t seem pacified by his actions, he lowered his lips from her temple to her jaw. “Lower your hackles, darlin’. There’s no need for you to be in such a tizzy anymore.”

She hummed in reply, craning her neck to give him better access, and then said, “Goody? I like the parlor tree you brought.”

Goodnight kissed her square on the lips before he reached to let down her hair. “Merry Christmas, Gus…”

* * *

“Augusta was good at cards.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, hell yeah, best cheater our side of the Mississippi,” Goodnight scoffs, feeling rather than seeing Billy’s smile. Or maybe he just knows it’s there. He turns over an ace and moves it above the rest of his piles, oddly content with his game of Patience against Billy’s legs. Billy had lost the next four games and retired before he owed Goodnight an entire pack of cigarettes, and now he has resigned to watching Goodnight play. “She could count them, and when she didn’t do that, you’d never see her slip a card up her sleeve. But the thing is, she was so good at cards that when she won, we didn’t know if she’d cheated or not. Part of the game was trying to catch her red-handed.”

At his next thought, he chuckles lowly. “Ames always tried to cheat too, but, well, Gus was a bit brighter than him.”

Goodnight observes the cards in front of him and contemplates his next move while Billy downs the last bit of the cider.

Nineteen years ago, if someone had told Goodnight that eventually he would be spending winters playing cards in nameless boarding houses with a Korean man, he would have laughed in their face and thought they were out of their mind. How could they ever say such a thing when he had a pretty little wife and hearty son and a beautiful estate? Nestled by the fire, reading to his children or grandchildren, snug in wool bedclothes and tucked under a pile of quilts—that was the only way he’d ever spend his winters.

And yet here he is, and he thinks, glancing up to find Billy interestedly watching the cards, that if he can’t spend his winters like he imagined, this isn’t a bad way to spend them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dates that might be useful:  
> Oregon becomes a state-February 14, 1859  
> Nine months after Christmas-Late September  
> John Brown's Raid-October 16-18, 1859
> 
> So a friend of mine recently told me about Chronicling America, which is the Library of Congress's newspaper archive (beyond helpful). The article they read later comes from the New Orleans Daily Crescent on October 17, 1859.
> 
> Billy: Spring-early Summer 1878  
> Augusta: February 15, 1859-October 17, 1859

Goodnight had always enjoyed the spring, with its bright new flowers and warmer air. Winter’s passing had once brought Mardi Gras and Easter in the city, with the promise of barbecues and garden parties at home. Summers and autumns had brought more work, and winter was always dreadful, but spring—spring was light and worthy of song.

Laden with their supplies, Goodnight, whistling merrily, steps onto the porch of the general store and when Billy isn’t waiting for him outside, glances up and down the street for his partner. The street is empty, save for the dust that the breeze keeps stirring. With no small feeling of panic, Goodnight bounces down the two stairs and turns the corner of the store to head back towards the main part of town, abandoning his whistling. There have been plenty of unfortunate times in the past where Billy has been missing. After spending three months in Santa Fe, he wouldn’t be surprised if Billy had made a few enemies while Goodnight had his back turned, and bad things tended to happen when Billy made enemies.

_Blasted fool probably goaded them,_ he thinks, and then feels guilty for blaming Billy—not that the other man hadn’t given him reason in the past to assume such things. Billy always teases Goodnight for being flashy, but Goodnight would be damned if he said Billy wasn’t a peacock himself, always flashing his knives and riling people up for the fun of getting under their skin.

He finds Billy just around the corner, stooped down with a small, scrappy little dog hunkered at his feet, head ducked but tail wagging as Billy scratches its back. What little fur it has stands on end and does no good to hide every bone in the dog’s body. There are no signs of the horses, and judging from the way Billy doesn’t even acknowledge Goodnight, he doubts the younger man even cares where they are.

“Do you still have possession of our steeds?”

Billy’s head whips around to face Goodnight. He jerks his head, “Round back.”

Goodnight returns with their horses to the sight of Billy, now seated on the ground and reclined against the building, dog in his lap, digging in his coat pocket for a bit of old jerky, which is gone in the time it takes for a smile to flash across Billy’s lips. “Billy, you keep feeding that thing, and I’m going to have to get more supplies.”

“He’s too skinny,” Billy replies simply, and Goodnight scoffs, rolling his eyes. As if Billy has the right to call anyone skinny.

“Ready to head out,” he asks, turning his back to Billy as he checks their bags and mounts. He doesn’t pay any mind to Billy rummaging about in his own bags before he put his foot in the stirrup. 

* * *

When Goodnight caught Augusta’s eye but went straight to the library, he knew she would follow quickly. No sooner had he opened the desk drawer did she appear in the doorway, knocking gently on the frame. “What happened? How did it go?”

What happened? They had planned mutiny on their country, that's what had happened, and to top it off, they’d been much too interested in Augusta. Goodnight poured an impressive glass of the sherry from his desk, sloshing a bit out of the glass, and downed half of it in one gulp, the burn doing little to take his mind away from the evening. “Goddamned fools the lot of them, Augusta, you’d never believe it.”

“Try me,” she said, moving into the room and stepping behind him to slip off his coat. She tossed it over her arm and then leaned against the desk while Goodnight sat down. “What was so bad about this gathering?"

“Ansel Delacroix.” Goodnight swallowed the other half of his glass, glad for the burn; he told himself to focus on it instead of that no good tobacco farmer. Augusta’s lips quivered, and by trying to hide a smile, she ended up looking more like she was pouting. Goodnight shot her a look, and she kept her teasing to herself.

“Sonovabitch didn’t say a word to me until he asked about you. ‘How’s your wife, Goody? It’s a shame you didn’t bring her with you.’ Can you believe that? He had the gall to call me _Goody_ , Augusta. And what would you have possibly done at that kind of gathering? Patted our heads and said how proud you are? Served us tea? You’re not a goddamned maid, you’re Augusta goddamned _Robicheaux_.” At this, Augusta grinned and shook her head, and Goodnight’s scowl deepened. “It isn’t funny, Gus. I don’t like him.”

“Well I’m not chiding you for that because I don’t like him either. I just hardly think that qualifies for you to act like a jealous schoolboy,” Augusta said, taking his hand in hers.

Goodnight scoffed indignantly; him a jealous schoolboy, indeed. It made perfect sense for him to be more than ruffled by another man’s attention to his wife. “He used to call on you, Gus, I know he did.”

“He didn't,” Augusta insisted, and at Goodnight's disbelief, she sighed. “He didn’t, Goody, Hattie and Mathilde made sure of that. I entertained him at parties and such, but that was before you came into the picture. I never would have married him, that's for sure. He made me…uncomfortable, always on edge. His eyes were too funny. Besides, he’s married now.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to some people,” Goodnight grumbled, and poured another glass in attempt to talk himself out of telling her what else had happened, but her thumb slowly rubbing across his knuckles wore him down. “Did we get a paper today?”

Augusta nodded and pried the glass from his hand. “Said Oregon was admitted to the Union. Isn’t that exciting? Thirty-three states now.”

“As a free state. Lord, that had them in a tizzy. They swear up and down the government is taking away our rights, and Ansel Delacroix—don’t give me that look, Gus—sat there and tried to convince us that we needed to be our own country. Said our parish had enough strong men to lead the movement. He’s out of his mind if he thinks one parish can convince the entire South to secede.”

It was becoming a regular topic of conversation, war and secession, at balls and weddings and dinners, and Goodnight was growing sick of it. Ansel and Micah Magee had brought up war at Valentine’s wedding, causing Mrs. Robicheaux to add her opinion about Goodnight fighting, since her father had left such a reputation to be upheld; Goodnight had thought Augusta would strangle them then. Now the men of distinction were meeting together as though they had any sort of power—and for the most part, they unfortunately did.

“Oh, who cares what Ansel Delacroix thinks? He’s half delusional, and anyone with a lick of sense knows that,” Augusta said quietly after a moment, with her soft, closed-lip smile, effectively calming Goodnight more than the sherry had.

He smiled back at her and took a moment to bask in her company after the frustrating day away, noting the circles under her eyes. As he brushed back a stray curl, Goodnight asked, “Have you been sick today?”

“I’m sick every day.”

“Gus—”

Augusta sighed, settling onto his knee when he held out his arms, and kissed his cheek. “I feel better than yesterday.”

“Have you been working today?”

“Of course,” she chided, “there’s work to be done. I couldn’t help with the bread because the smell made me sick too, and Beau and Othello knocked over the water for laundry. That didn’t make me sick, just frustrated. Mammy reminded me of Sal’s invitation to dinner, but that made me sick because I’m still mad at her from Christmas.”

“You’re going to have to accept at some point,” Goodnight murmured into her shoulder. Nearly a month ago, Salome had invited them to dinner, but every time someone brought it up, Augusta neatly differed the conversation elsewhere. She refused to accept, saying that if they went, they’d be obligated to return the invitation, and she did not want any of her sisters in her home again.

“I’m much cleverer than you give me credit for, Goody, and I have plenty of excuses. We can’t go now because who knows when I’ll get sick, and by the time I stop that, I’ll be too big to be seen out of the house, and it’ll be another six weeks after the baby before I can go out again.”

“Titus,” Goodnight suggested suddenly, changing the subject but knowing Augusta would follow; she was always able to follow his train of thought. To try to distract himself on the ride home, he’d been racking his brain his brain for what Augusta called their ‘late Christmas present.’

“Titus Robicheaux? Oh stars, no, that sounds horrible.” Her rebuke was worth it just to watch her head tip back as she laughed, the lovely sound. Goodnight let a wide smile spread across his face, which he kept buried in her shoulder.

“Ishmael?”

Her brow knitting together, Augusta’s lips moved silently as she played with the name, and eventually, she shrugged. “You’re getting better with names, but I won’t agree to it yet. And you only keep suggesting boys’ names.”

“I think it’s going to be a boy,” he said, finally meeting her eye. The look she gave him said she thought he was being silly, but she didn’t say anything aloud. 

* * *

“Oh, Billy, goddamn it.”

The corners of Billy’s lips turn up just enough for him to come across as too self-satisfied, but he can’t help himself. He puts the dog on the ground and buckles his bag, then waits patiently for whatever Goodnight has to say. The Southerner is standing with his hands on his hips, half a snarl on his face as he regards the mutt Billy stowed away. 

“Billy… Am I going to have to start making you turn out your pockets?”

With the look on his face paired with the tone of his voice, Billy can see now that Goodnight had once been a father, even if it had been for a brief time long ago. He had probably been used to making sure pockets were empty at the end of the day, having been a boy himself and knowing just how much could fit inside.

But when Billy had spotted the dog, more bones than skin and fur combined, and it had come warily to him, trusting him even though it seemed to be against its better judgement, Billy knew he couldn’t just leave it to starve; the least he could do was fatten it up a little and find someone who would take it.

Because that’s just what Billy does. He stumbles on scraggly, hurting creatures, and he can’t resist helping them. Sometimes, like now, that means sharing food, and sometimes…it just means being.

Goodnight rolls his eyes and rubs his face. He sets about to unloading his horse, and Billy thinks he mutters something about being ‘too old for this.’ With Goodnight’s back turned to him, Billy lets his smirk widen; it seems the dog will be staying. He slips it another piece of jerky, as he’d been doing the entire ride when Goodnight was too engrossed by his own chattering to notice.

“What’s its name?” Goodnight asks when they’re settling in for the night.

The dog glances up at Billy as if it knows it’s being talked about and wags its tail when it catches Billy’s eye. It’s quite ugly and stinks, and it’s stayed under Billy’s feet the entire night except for the two times it got under Goodnight’s and tripped him, but Billy already has a hint of attachment towards it.

“Rocky.”

Goodnight’s lips twitch for the first time all evening, and he tosses a bit of the pork they’d had for dinner at the dog.

* * *

A few weeks pass, and then a few more until it’s the end of April before Billy has Rocky looking like a living dog again, and not like he’d dug it out of a grave. His ribs disappear, and after a few trips to the creek, he loses the majority of his smell. His fur comes back _mostly._ He looks better than he did when they left Santa Fe, though, so Billy thinks that counts for something, even though Goodnight still says he won’t be winning any beauty contests.  

Billy wakes to find Rocky as his only companion.

When his brain registers this information, he sits up immediately, earning a dirty look from Rocky, but the look loses its effect because of his chest is already tightening with panic.  Goodnight’s horse is gone, along with his packs and bedroll, and the fire is dying, and—

He shouldn’t have slept so well. He should have asked that they take watches, but Billy had felt so comfortable that he didn’t think they needed to. And that’s the problem, he thinks. He shouldn’t have gotten so damn _comfortable_.

_It’s the end of April,_ Billy tells himself, fingers shaking as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and fumbles with the match. Goodnight is supposed to be the one who needs these to function, and under normal circumstances, he is. But normal circumstances mean Goodnight and Billy together, and now Billy is alone. _It’s the end of April, maybe today is the day._

Billy loses track of the days and dates because they hold no meaning to him, but Goodnight has all these special little anniversaries for everything. Maybe today is _that day,_ and Goodnight has just gone to clear his head. Billy tells himself over and over that’s all it is. He tells himself over and over that Goodnight _always comes back,_ repeats that phrase in his mind like a mantra.

One day he knows Goodnight just won’t come back. He’ll wise up and realize he could be living well in an actual house with better company if he wasn’t always having to take care of Billy. One day Goodnight will wise the hell up and get the hell out, and Billy will be right back where he started: alone, on the run, always the recipient of snarls.

_Goodnight always comes back._

He hugs his knees and puffs furiously on his cigarette.

_Goodnight always comes back._

Rocky licks his hand, and if he hadn’t watched him, he wouldn’t have even realized it.

_Goodnight always comes back._

He takes one last drag before he hears hoofbeats, and a moment later, there’s a soft, scratchy voice singing, “It matters little now, Lorena, the past is in the eternal past.”

Billy doesn’t look over his shoulder, but he doesn’t need to. His shoulders slump as he releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and he picks himself up off the ground. When Goodnight dismounts, Billy catches his gaze for the briefest moment, finding nothing but pain and shame in the Southerner’s sharp blue eyes.

They don’t say a word about it.

* * *

“Are you sure this is enough? We could still go up to New—”

With a sigh, Augusta turned her big eyes up to Goodnight, the smirk on her lips saying, _I_ told _you, Goody._ Aloud, she said, “I promise this all I want: you and Beau.”

Per Augusta’s request, they had trekked down to the creek, where Beau now played merrily, under the watchful eye of his parents, who were seated under the willow, the shade a relief from the warm spring day. Goodnight had tried convincing Augusta since Easter that they should spend their anniversary celebrating elaborately, but Augusta had tried convincing Goodnight since Easter that the best way to celebrate was quietly at home. Of course, she had won in the end, since Goodnight had yet to deny her anything. So now they relaxed by the water’s edge, an empty lunch basket by their side.

“You and Beau and a whole horde of children. That’s all I want,” she continued softly, readjusting herself in Goodnight’s hold, and he stroked her hair, warm in spots from the patches of sunlight streaming down. She ran a hand over her growing stomach, still small enough to be hidden under her dresses.

“We’re working on it,” Goodnight replied, hiding his smile in her hair. He could only imagine their mess of curly-haired boys playing in the water or whooping as they rode around the grounds. He would teach them all to shoot a rabbit from a half a mile away, and Augusta would make sure they all knew how to dance with a lady, and the parish would always remark on how well-spoken and charming the Robicheaux boys were.

After giving away Valentine at her wedding, Goodnight had decided he didn’t want any girls. If he did have daughters, they’d join a convent the moment boys started to realize they were pretty—which of course they would be, with their mama and the Robicheaux name.

“Mama! Mama, bug! Bug! Big bug,” Beau screeched, snapping them out of their quiet conversation to find their son looking at the creek with nothing short of pure joy. His little hands waved wildly as he struggled to contain his excitement. With that, one hand shot into the water and withdrew a crayfish, and he clomped through the water over to where his parents were.

“Oh, Beau, you have a crawdad! Come here and show us,” Augusta called, her eyes widening, more probably from nerves than excitement. Aside, she said, “Goody, get it from him before he gets pinched.”

Dripping water onto Augusta’s worn green blanket, Beau thrust his hand out, displaying his catch. How he’d managed to snatch the thing so skillfully was beyond Goodnight, but if it was a bug—or what he thought was a bug—Beau would catch it.

“Bug,” Beau asked when Augusta called it a crawdad again, scowling at his crayfish as though it had betrayed him. “Bug?”

“Mudbug,” Goodnight said, and Augusta shot him a grateful look. It pacified Beau, and he went back to smiling. Goodnight put the crayfish in their basket and then stood, wiping his hands on his pants. “If we turn some more rocks over, we’ll probably find plenty of these. Maybe your mama will be kind enough to cook them for dinner.”

“Oh, I doubt it has anything to do with my kindness. You know I can’t cook anything that doesn’t have flour and sugar,” Augusta teased, but she laughed softly, her head tipping to the side. Discarding his boots and stockings, Goodnight kissed her once as he followed Beau to the creek.

Later, when the sun set, when Goodnight carried a basket of crayfish in one hand and a sleeping Beau on his back and listened to Augusta hum a familiar French folk song, he couldn’t help but think that even without the wine and jewels, it hadn’t been a bad way to celebrate two years of marriage.

* * *

While Goodnight works his charm on the crowd, Billy leans against the fence and lazily pulls out a cigarette. No matter how many times he’s seen it, he can’t help but admire Goodnight’s way with words, how he can gather a crowd and work Billy up until they have no other option but to think Goodnight is lying and take the bait. But then again, they haven’t realized who Goodnight is yet. They’ll believe him when they know his name because only someone of such skill could ever be the Angel of Death’s travelling companion.

Billy hides his smile behind his hand as he lights his cigarette. If Goodnight isn’t careful, he’s going to have them run out of town before the show even starts.

He waves out his match and glances up to find a group of schoolchildren running over to see what the commotion could be. The scrawny little boy in front peers up at the debonair stranger with the pretty words, his eyes filled with anticipation and wonder behind his glasses. Billy watches as the other children gather, and the bespectacled boy gets pushed to the back. Removing the cigarette from his lips, Billy scowls at the children; they’ll be bullies when they grow up.

When they finally have their challenge set, Billy pushes off the rail and takes his stance.

And just before he whips his gun from its holster, he winks at the bespectacled boy. 

* * *

After dinner, Billy steps onto the back porch of the restaurant for a bit of quiet and to escape the sneers only to find the bespectacled boy petting Rocky.

Billy stops in his tracks while he contemplates what do to. He and children…they don’t have a mutual liking for each other, but he’s discovered that Rocky has a neat little trick where he can detect who needs attention, and at the moment, he’s slobbering all over the ground and leaning into the hand that’s petting him. So Billy braces for a few slurs as he props himself up against porch railing.

“My dog seems to like you,” Billy says quietly, attempting to be offhanded. For no other reason than to have something else to focus on, he strikes a match and lights a cigarette.

Instantly the boy’s head whips around, his eyes wide, and he stammers, “I—I didn’t know this was your dog, sir.”

Billy shrugs, having no idea what to do next. Children usually aren’t as mean as their parents, but he also doesn’t usually seek out conversations with them. As he’s racking his mind for something to say, the boy saves him the trouble. “If I’d have known it was your dog, sir, I wouldn’t have petted him. It’s just, you see, sir, that I was sitting out here, and he came up to me.”

“Don’t make excuses for petting him,” Billy says, amused at the reaction. He knows he’s intimidating, that’s part of the act, but he never thought it would have been enough to scare children away from petting a dog. Albeit still an ugly dog, no matter how much better he looks. The boy’s face drops even more, and even in the dim light, Billy can tell that his eyes are red behind his glasses. Something like a grin flickers over his lips. “He looked pretty happy to me.”

Something like a grin flickers over the boy’s lips too, once he realizes Billy isn’t admonishing him. “I think he likes if you scratch his neck.”

“He thumps his foot if you rub his stomach.” And then a real grin spreads over the boy’s lips, and his hand twitches as if to test the statement. Billy nods in encouragement. As Rocky rolls over, the boy glances back up to Billy with a laugh on his face. “Name’s Billy Rocks.”

“Jasper Moon.”

They fall into a now comfortable silence, Billy smoking his cigarette and the boy making Rocky’s leg thump. He’s maybe ten, and Billy wonders if the boy’s expression comes from being perpetually amazed by this great world, or if he just isn’t terribly bright.

When the door opens next, it’s Goodnight slipping outside, carrying a bottle of whiskey, his face reading that this is a happy drink. “Billy, I’d wondered—oh. I see you’re making friends.”

Teasing not going over Billy’s head, he smirks at Goodnight and shrugs as if to say, _See, I don’t need you to make my own friends._ They both know that’s not exactly true, but if Goodnight is going to tease him, he’s going to tease right back. “Goody, this is Jasper Moon. Jasper, this is my friend Goodnight.”

“Well, you must be something special if you’ve attracted Billy’s attention, Jasper. How do you do,” Goodnight asks with a dip of his head, turning on his charm even for children. Any awe that the boy had held for Billy immediately intensifies as Goodnight speaks, but Goodnight has that effect on people. If he’d struggled to find words when Billy had addressed him, it’s nothing in comparison to how he flounders now. Maybe Billy should be jealous of the way Goodnight makes friends, but all he can do is admire his effortlessness.

“Rocky likes him. That’s good enough for me,” Billy says, smiling around his exhale of smoke—something about the way Goodnight is at ease, the way he speaks to the boy.

“I—I saw you t-today,” he stammers, swallowing hard, and even in the dark, his face goes visibly red. “You and them knives.”

“Oh, Billy’s real clever with those knives, isn’t he?”

“I wish I could do that. But I can’t do much of anything,” he whispers, and then seeming to realize what he’s said, turns away from them quickly.

It’s not so much as what he said that bothers Billy rather than the way Goodnight takes it, his smile disappearing and face contorting into something that resembles pain; he looks ready to scoop the boy into his arms and offer reassuring words. In moments like these, it bothers Billy that Goodnight had been a father—and likely a good one at that—but now he’s stuck roaming the West with him.

“I’m sure that’s not true. Everyone has something they’re good at,” Goodnight says, moving past Billy. “I had a friend who was the laziest son of a gun there ever was. He had no use for books, didn’t like to do his job much either. About all he was good for was blowing smoke rings and arguing, and if he couldn’t make someone smile…well, they were probably dead. And a woman I… _knew_ —only thing she was good for was hollering, and boy, did she do an exceptional job at that, whether you wanted her to or not.”

“Jasper, I’ve been looking all over for you. Come on in, now, and let’s look over those books,” cries a woman as the door slams shut, making all three heads turn. Fair hair pulled back neatly, not a single strand out of place, she has a youthful face, and a pretty one at that. Without meaning to, Billy clams up but stares, accidentally dropping his cigarette to the ground. When she catches his eye, she glances away quickly, seeming to realize she’d interrupted, and addresses Goodnight’s boots. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No harm done, ma’am. But Jasper, it was a pleasure meeting with you,” Goodnight says, flashing her a warm smile. He winks at Billy as she turns away, taking the boy with her.

“Shut up, Goody,” Billy grumbles, squinting at his friend. He looks down at his cigarette with a scowl; he _never_ drops things.

Goodnight feigns hurt, and Billy considers stabbing him—not enough to do damage, but enough to slice his coat. “Why, Billy, I didn’t say a word.” 

“That won’t last long.”

* * *

“How’re you, Sam,” Goodnight asked when he saw the other man riding up. He wiped his brow, damp with sweat despite a surprisingly cool fall day, and leaned against the wall of the mill. One of the stones had come loose, and it'd taken half the morning to get it back in track. At the moment, Goodnight's back ached, and his little finger throbbed from where he'd smashed it, and he wanted nothing more than to take a book and his wife and son to the creek. But Sam’s stoical face broke into a wide, bright smile when he got closer, and Goodnight wondered what could have happened that was so extraordinary to make him beam like that. “What's going on?”

“Miss Augusta’s been asking for you up at the house, and it's high time you came,” was all Sam said, mainly because Goodnight was on his horse before Sam could say anything else.

* * *

Under Ruth’s supervision, Beau was rolling around in the yard with Othello when Goodnight arrived, and when he saw his father, he skipped about the horse so chaotically that Goodnight had no choice but to get off before Beau was trampled. He swung Beau onto his hip, making the boy’s yellow curls bounce. “Are you having a good day, Beau?”

Beau smiled brightly, but Goodnight’s only answer was, “Mama?”

Of course, that would have been his reply. When Beau wasn’t after bugs or wrestling Othello, he always had one hand on Augusta’s skirt, trotting behind her wherever she went. Goodnight kissed the top of Beau’s head as he said, “That’s just who I was coming to check on.”

“Miss Augusta’s waiting for you upstairs, sir. In her bedroom,” Ruth said quietly, glancing at him with cow eyes from beneath her lashes. With a nod of thanks her way, Goodnight put Beau back on the ground, giving him a pat on the back as he told him to go play again.

Once he’d disappeared from Beau’s sight, Goodnight let his panic manifest again, his stride slipping from an easy swagger to a hurried trot, and he thundered up the stairs, footsteps echoing in the hall. He expected to see someone—his mother, Mammy, a maid—but the house was strangely empty, and he thought he’d rather have to shove past everyone to get to his wife instead of worry about her and the lack of presence. He pushed back the door to Augusta’s room to find his mother seated by the window, gently rocking a bassinette. He caught her eye, to which she nodded faintly.

Oh good Lord.

“Gus,” Goodnight called hesitantly when he saw his wife. Propped up by a horde of pillows, her hair plastered to her face and braid disheveled, Augusta’s eyes blinked open as he sat down next to her. “Did I wake you?”

“Goody, you made enough racket coming up the stairs to wake the dead,” Augusta teased, extending her hand to his cheek, but he turned his face to kiss her open palm. After so long, she looked oddly deflated, and it seemed, as she ran her hand over her now flat stomach, that Augusta felt the same way. But as deflated and haggard as she looked and probably felt, her usual smile spread across her lips sleepily. “But what are you doing over here with me? Don’t you want to see her?”

All at once Goodnight’s stomach dropped, and he tried to swallow even though his mouth was dry. He choked out, “ _Her?_ ”

“Oh, please don’t use that tone. Go see her,” she pleaded, raising herself up on her pillows, her smile disappearing and worry etching into her features. She knew he had been wary about daughters, having found him after Valentine’s wedding shooting at nails he’d put in a tree.

Mrs. Robicheaux held out a bundle of blankets, and with trembling hands, Goodnight accepted them from her, pushing back a bit of the blanket to reveal a little face.

It was nothing like seeing Beau for the first time. With his son, Goodnight could only think of all the things he would show him how to do, the tutors they would hire, everything Beau could learn, whereas now, seeing his daughter…he had the overwhelming urge to fix everything in the house that could possibly be broken or sharp or protruding.

“She—” was all he managed to say before his voice cracked, even though he wasn’t sure how he would have finished the sentence anyway, not with all the thoughts in his head. She was even smaller than Beau, and he just knew she would look exactly like Augusta once she was older. Which meant she’d be terribly beautiful, and she’d attract boys like him, and he’d have to watch them come to his house to see her. Or maybe she’d be sneaking off like her mother had done; that would be even worse because it had taken every ounce of strength he had not to do anything compromising. And then one day, one of those boys would want to marry her, and he’d have to give her away, and this time he would be the _father_ of the bride instead of the brother.

He might just die in the aisle.

Already she a shock of black hair and perfectly round cheeks, and Goodnight realized that, no matter the wrinkles and redness, she didn’t need to grow up to be terribly beautiful.

As he was planning a trip to New Orleans for fabric and lace and ruffles to make her every frilly dress imaginable, a droplet of water fell onto her little nose, and she cracked her eyes to show off a familiar shade of bright green.

“Oh, Gus, she looks just like you,” Goodnight moaned, glad his back was to his wife as he hurriedly swiped at his eyes. 

* * *

For the next two weeks, Goodnight spent most of his time in the house, even though it was mid-October and the height of the planting season. He entertained Augusta in bed until his wife told Mammy she’d had enough recuperating and she was getting up no matter what anyone told her, and then he’d wandered around the house, almost always holding the baby unless Augusta had taken her from him. Sometimes he’d sit in the floor with Beau and let him hold her, enjoying the way Beau smiled as though it was the most wonderful, frightening thing he’d ever experienced.

It came as a surprise to everyone at Foxsong when Ames came riding up at full speed and clomped up the front steps faster than Goodnight had ever seen him move, throwing open the door without invitation.

“Oh hell, y’all, wait 'til you hear—is this the new baby,” Ames asked as he burst into the parlor, losing focus of whatever news he’d brought the moment he saw what Goodnight was holding.

“Well the old baby is right here,” Augusta said, bouncing Beau on her lap. He promptly hopped down and ran to Ames, who swung him into his arms, and Augusta rose to greet Ames. Without caring it wasn’t proper to touch another man’s wife, Ames kissed her cheek.  

“I hope I never count on you to deliver a dire message,” Goodnight snorted, glad to see his friend since it had been nearly three weeks since their last dinner together.  

“I’m plenty reliable. Right, Beau?” Beau nodded enthusiastically at Ames, and the older man raised his eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders. Every trace of the concern he’d arrived with was gone from his face as he crossed to where Goodnight stood. “Look at this, Beau, it’s my new goddaughter. Good heavens, is this what you looked like as a baby, Aggie?”

“Oddly enough, I don’t remember.”

Ames narrowed his eyes but chuckled.  “What’s her name?”

“Genevieve Aurelie Robicheaux. We’ve been calling her Ginny,” Goodnight said, not bothering to keep the pride out of his voice. Even though he hadn’t managed to convince Augusta to name the baby Goodnight Augusta, they’d compromised on the initials. Ames’s face lit up when he heard her middle name, and Goodnight rolled his eyes. “No, Ames, we didn’t name her after your damn house. Now what was your hurry about?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ames said, putting Beau down to dig in his coat pocket. He pulled out a newspaper and held it out to Goodnight. “Trade you.”

Goodnight swapped Ginny for the newspaper, and Ames bounced her happily, introducing himself as Uncle Ames and promising her a pony as soon as she could sit on her own. His comment brought a scolding from Augusta, saying his last animal gift always knocked over her water when she did laundry, and Goodnight knew that of course Ames replied, but whatever he said went unheard as the words on the paper sunk in.

_A man named Allen Evans of New England, one of the band, was shot, and when dying he confessed that the scheme was gotten up by Brown, who represented to those he wished to induce to follow him that the negroes would rise by thousands and Maryland and Virginia be made free States, this being the chief object they had in view._

His blood running cold, Goodnight’s hands shook as he hurriedly scanned the rest of the article. This…was rebellion.

“—say,” came Augusta’s voice, breaking through his thoughts, and Goodnight’s head jerked up, his heart pounding. As he started to shake his head, Augusta blanched and reached for the newspaper, which he tugged out of her reach. She gave an impressive frown. “Goody, let me see that.

“ _A dispatch from Harpers’ Ferry, dated three o’clock this morning, states that several military companies arrived from Charleston and Shepardstown, Virginia, and from Frederick, Maryland, had taken possession of the town. Upon the approach of the troops, the rioters withdrew to the arsenal, and entrenched themselves in the Armory…”_

While Augusta stopped reading aloud, her mouth kept moving, and eventually, she looked up at the men with wide, frightened eyes. “What…what does this mean? Ames, Goody, what does this mean?”

For once, Ames seemed at a loss for words.

Brown wanted to make Maryland and Virginia free states. It was one thing to argue over which way to vote, but it was another thing entirely to attempt to lead a slave revolution. This was more than squabbling over territories—this was flat-out rebellion. Before he could stop himself, Goodnight whispered, “There’s no going back from this.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Goodnight turned his attention back to Augusta. She swallowed hard and didn’t make a sound, but instead glanced down to Beau, who was watching the adults apprehensively. She smiled warmly, losing any trace of nerves, and scooped him up, and immediately Beau returned to his sunny self.

“Listen, Aggie, I didn’t bring this by to scare you,” Ames began, but when both Goodnight and Augusta cut their eyes to him sharply, he quieted. With a sigh, he held out Ginny towards Goodnight. “Well, you two have some things to talk about, and I don’t think Mattie knows about this yet, so I’ll just be on my way.”

“We really do thank you for stopping by,” Augusta said, already ushering him towards the door.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Ames said once more as he took the hint and twisted the knob, but not before turning his cow eyes towards them apologetically.  “And maybe now isn’t the time to ask for favors, but don’t tell Mattie I’ve seen the baby. She’d skin me alive if she knew.”

“Why’re you telling us that? ‘Hey Mattie, I saw Goody’s and Augusta’s baby just now’ will be the first thing out of your mouth when you get home,” Goodnight said, and Ames grinned, relieved, at the return to their playful teasing.

“That’s no way to treat me if you want me to be the godfather,” Ames quipped, patting Goodnight’s cheek, and Goodnight swatted his hand away.

“That’s no way to treat me if you don’t want Oceane and Julien to be the godparents.”

“The devil would be godfather before Augusta let Oceane and Julien.”

“Perhaps, but Salome and Dorian stand a good chance.”

“Oh, you. You’ve always been too smart for your own good. But you know Mattie would be on the warpath if you did that.” Ames tipped his hat towards Augusta. “You take care now, and watch this fellow—he’s a tricky one. And expect Mattie to be over first thing in the morning now that she knows you can have visitors.”

* * *

Goodnight was a peaceful sleeper. Once he was comfortable against her, he was still for the rest of the right, and after two and a half years, Augusta had grown so used to his unmoving warmth that when he did move, she woke immediately.

The weight of his arm disappeared off her waist, leaving an oddly wanting feeling, and Augusta cracked open her eyes, dragging herself to consciousness. As the bed shifted, she just managed to slur, “What's going on?”

“Dammit,” she heard Goodnight hiss, and she rolled onto her back. Goodnight was pulling on a pair of britches under his night dress. He frowned as she squinted at him. “Go back to sleep, darlin’.”

“I can’t, I’m wide awake now.”

“Dammit,” Goodnight said again, with just a hint of his usual sideways grin, just a hint that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes; he was trying too hard to seem relaxed. Augusta sat up, meeting his gaze, and silently asked him to come back to bed.

When he responded just as silently that he had no intentions of doing that, Augusta pushed back the covers. “Let’s go swing.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little too dark and cold for that?”

“I’ll get a blanket, and you’re fairly warm.”

They dressed quietly and slipped downstairs, out the door and onto the back porch, where they wrapped themselves in a quilt. With all the stars visible, the night was clear and calm, and Augusta tried to remember a time when she and Goodnight had been out at this hour; none came to mind, save for parties or parades. Pressed against her husband’s side, with him pushing them idly back and forth, Augusta couldn’t help but think this was how things were supposed to be, how they should have spent more nights like this. She leaned her head against the crook of Goodnight’s neck, closing her eyes as he absently began to stroke her hair.

This was how they were supposed to spend sleepless nights.

But from the back of her mind came the words from the newspaper that afternoon, and her stomach somersaulted at the memory. She had seen Goodnight’s face ashen, had felt her heart drop when he tried to keep it from her; that had been the worst part because Goodnight had never kept anything from her, not even when they hadn’t been married.

“Goody,” she whispered, only to break the hush. If Goodnight had been unable to sleep, he should have been talkative, and his quietness was making her even more nervous.

“Gus,” he answered slowly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Are we going to war?”

His silence gave her enough of an answer, but eventually, he said, strained, “Yeah. Yeah, I’d say we are.”

“Promise me you won’t go,” Augusta whispered, her chest tightening. Goodnight couldn’t go, he couldn’t leave her, not when they had children and a home. But she knew before he answered what he would say. He was too noble, too revered and too proud of that to ever stay while the men he’d grown up with went away.

“Gus, darlin’,” he began, but that was as far as he got before he broke off. Augusta tangled their fingers together.

“I’m scared, Goody.”

Goodnight let out a single huff, and then he genuinely chuckled. “You, scared? Why, Augusta Robicheaux, I’d never believe that. You’ve already lived with three devils, I don’t see how a bit of war could scare you.”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “If you go, I’ll be here alone, and I have no clue how to keep this place going, and Goody…I love you. _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime…”_

_"Jamais je ne t'oublierai,”_ they both finished.

* * *

“It wasn’t love at first sight, really, it wasn’t.” Goodnight still wonders what it had been exactly. Improper, but entirely honorable. Slow, but meaningful. “I met such a curious little creature, and I had to know what made her tick.”

No matter how romantic, he’d never been one to believe in love at first sight. There was no such thing as loving a person when you didn’t know them, he’d thought. Conversations were a great deal different depending on whether they were happening under the watchful eye of chaperone or under the light of the moon, and people—they were never the same. Augusta was ever-changing. She was not the same girl the night of the Castex ball as she had been at the Magees’, and she was not the same woman he came home to as he married. But then again, he was not the same either.

Billy’s brow is furrowed, most likely in confusion or concentration, perhaps both, and it gives him a wary look. Sometimes Goodnight thinks Billy is the embodiment of everyone he left behind. Ames’s friendship, Salome’s stoicism, Sam’s responsibility, Augusta’s patience, even Micah’s comradery.

“It wasn’t love at first sight with Gus and me,” Goodnight repeats. He isn’t sure why he’s saying this, exactly, but he’d seen the way Billy had looked at the schoolmarm—that was a look he’d seen plenty of times in ballrooms, the startled, doe-eyed gaze of a fellow presented with an individual who was suddenly very attractive; hell, Billy had dropped his cigarette. He knows he owes this to Billy. “We can stay here if you’d like.”

Realization replaces Billy’s wariness, and, all but rolling his eyes, he looks away and goes back to his undressing. “Goody, I’m not in love with her.”

Somehow, Goodnight finds that oddly comforting.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dates:  
> Billy: Fall 1878  
> Augusta: April 1860; Mid-October--January 1861  
> Election day was 8 November 1860.  
> South Carolina seceded 20 December 1860, and Louisiana followed on 26 January 1861.
> 
> Miss Caro Rhett is not my character and instead belongs to Margaret Mitchell. Because I freaking love that story.

“I miss that dog,” Billy says offhandedly one evening. He’s wringing out his shirt over the basin in their room, having been caught in a downpour just as they reached the outskirts of a town. His teeth chatter discreetly. It was nowhere close to the first time they’d been caught in a storm, and under normal circumstances, they’d strip down and leave their clothes by the fire, but it’s October and cold. 

Goodnight checks the breast pocket of his overcoat, and finding it dry, he trades his panic for a scowl towards the water that comes out of Billy’s shirt, then at the puddle gathering under his feet. They’ll be out of towels in ten minutes at this rate. “Well, you’re the one who gave him away.”

“We never had any jerky with him around,” Billy continues, shaking his head, smirking as Goodnight scoffs.

“Billy, if you’d wanted jerky, you shouldn’t have been feeding it to him every other minute,” Goodnight reminds him, his scowl shrinking, and Billy glances over his shoulder.

“He was skinny.”

“And you certainly took care of that, didn’t you?”

“You’re getting to be an asshole in your old age,” Billy says, sliding his suspenders down over his shoulders. He has the faintest of smiles on his lips, but his eyes flash with silent laughter. Billy can wordlessly tease someone better than anyone Goodnight has ever met. Maybe it gets them into trouble, but Goodnight appreciates it. With what looks like a dozen more quips on his lips, Billy repeats, “I miss that dog, Goody.”

Billy had given away their dog a few towns back to a chubby-cheeked little farm girl with the biggest eyes Goodnight had ever seen— _well, almost the biggest,_ he thinks bitterly. Goodnight scoffs again, but a smile spreads across his face. Somehow Billy is good at that.  “You just couldn’t resist those sad blue eyes.”

Slowly, the smile fades from Billy’s own eyes, and he goes back to undressing, his britches making a slapping sound as he tosses them onto the floor in front of the fireplace. “They get me every time.”

* * *

Turning the roads to a soupy mess, it rained near daily the first two weeks that April of 1860. The parish had tried to keep on with social activity, but after the Magee carriage broke a wheel coming from a ball at the Millers’, there were no more barbecues or balls, and social activity was paused except for Sunday Mass. Yet that hadn’t prevented all accidents.

For a good hour, Augusta had wandered about Saltmore Hall, telling little snippets of stories. Here was where Oceane had pushed her down the stairs when Augusta had worn a new dress and Oceane hadn't liked that her sister looked pretty. “I bled on my dress, but she got whooped for that,” Augusta had said with just a hint of satisfaction in her voice, clearly not caring about the dress.

There was where Anastasie had pulled Salome’s hair the first time Salome had called her a bitch. This was the Bible from which their father had always read the Christmas story on Christmas Eve, and this must have been her mother’s latest knitting project. Here was the desk where Mr. Evercreech had always done plantation business, and here was where Augusta sat to read in companionable silence with her father.

Goodnight followed his wife from the library and paused when she did. Saltmore Hall was no Foxsong, but it was beautiful in its own right, with glistening wood instead of marble floors and bright blue and white walls, a warm, cheery place—or it had been, but now it, in wake of recent events, stood oddly detached from the rest of the world. Once as lively as its inhabitants, the house was now lifeless, the curtains closed and hanging limply, the grandfather clock silent, and the gloom was only added to by the little woman in a black crepe dress standing in the middle of the foyer, glancing around as if utterly out of place.

“I'm an orphan,” Goodnight heard Augusta murmur to herself.

“You’re not an orphan,” Goodnight reminded her, and he would have been amused at her reaction had it not been such a somber moment; instead, he let a wave of grief wash over him for Augusta.

“Well, my parents are dead,” Augusta said, pressing her lips together in a thin line, “and we have two houses now. What do we do with two houses?” 

“I have no idea,” he relented with a heavy sigh. Sometimes, like now when she was focusing on the fact that they had two houses and not that she’d lost both her parents, he thought she was too practical. It wasn’t that he wanted to see her in sorrow, but Goodnight wished she would do something; he had no idea how to comfort her when all she did was walk around with a long face and drooped shoulders.

Finally, she turned to him with a wobbling lip, and Goodnight smothered his guilt from being relieved that she was about to cry. All he had to do was open his arms, and she was burying herself in his hold, clinging to him tightly. Goodnight laid his chin on her head and rocked slowly side to side, smoothing her hair as he breathed, “Oh, Gus, darlin’...I’ve got you.” But her shoulders never shook, and a sob never broke free from her lips, and when she pulled away after what was entirely too short a time for a proper cry, her eyes were still brimming with tears, a few stains on her cheeks saying that she hadn’t let many escape.

“We have two houses, Goody,” Augusta insisted. “What do we do with them?”

He knew exactly what she wanted. Still clutching him to her, face turned up to meet his with wide, pleading eyes, Goodnight could hear in her tone that she was not asking him strictly about the houses but rather beseeching him to fix the whole mess. She did not know what to do, but of course her husband would because that’s what husbands were for: taking care of the women and making sense of the things that the feminine mind could not understand.

While Goodnight tried to think of something to tell her, knowing anything would pacify her, he raked his fingers through her long curls, which she had left down, and rubbed gently at the nape of her neck. “I reckon we could probably sell it. And if you don’t want to do that, I'd understand. It's your home after all.”

But Augusta looked at him slowly, a bit dazed, and shaking her head, said, “No. My home is with you.”

“Well...we can keep it for any more boys that we might have. As for the land, I do have some ideas.” Augusta nodded and allowed him to lead her to the back porch. “Now it’s too late to do anything different, but keep in mind that I don’t have a mind for cotton. Next season, though, I’d like to plant sugar on half the land after the picking is done. With the other half, up here closer to the house, we could grow more crops, raise some cattle and pigs. Chickens. Maybe a few geese. A peacock or two.”

That got a snort from Augusta, and Goodnight grinned down at her. “It’ll take some planning, and a good bit of building too. We’ll have to expand the barn and probably the fencing. Hell, we’d probably need another mill to process all that sugar. But right now, we’re looking at me trying to run two plantations, and not small ones either.” He elbowed her, just enough that she grinned back, and said, “Maybe I’ll teach you how to run this one.”

“Can you imagine that? A woman running a plantation. Honestly. You’re too imaginative sometimes.” But there in her voice he found the quiet lilting drawl again, and he knew he'd been successful. She laid her head on his chest. “I’ll do whatever you think is best. We have the money Daddy left me that we could use to expand, and it wouldn't come out of our finances.”

“Darlin’, isn't there anything else you'd rather do with that?” Augusta turned her face up to him, brow knitted in confusion as she thought about what he'd just said, and the look in her eyes asked how she was supposed to know what to do with the money when women never handled that sort of thing. “Just think on it.”

“Goody, do you mind if we go home now? I'd like to check on the children, and I’m sure Ames and Mattie are driving you mother mad by now.” She smiled suddenly again, a little puff of air escaping her lips as though a laugh was second thought. “Do you know what Mattie said to me earlier? ‘It’s a good thing this happened after Mardi Gras, or you wouldn’t have been able to go to a single ball.’”

Goodnight rubbed his hand across his face, recalling a time when Mathilde had tried to comfort him. After three years, it seemed she had still not improved in her bedside manner. “That sounds like her, all right.” 

* * *

Beau and Ginny were as different as night and day. As good a child as he was, Beau was loud and all boy, always ending up with ripped clothes and a dirty face. He'd learned to run before he walked, and the day he'd trotted out the parlor after Augusta, Goodnight had nearly slipped off the sofa in surprise; though, really, he should have known better since Beau never let his mama out of sight for too long.

They'd grown used to sunny little Beau, a handsome thing with a mop of dark blond curls and clever blue eyes, sweet as honey but rambunctious as a stallion. And then came Ginny, Genevieve Aurelie, blessed by the Evercreech beauty. With inky curls, big eyes, and round cheeks like her mother, Ginny contrasted sharply against her brother. She hardly made a sound, rarely cried, and was perfectly content to let anyone and everyone hold her; she twisted her fingers through Augusta’s long curls, slept soundly against Goodnight’s chest, and never let Sam walk past without raising her arms to him.

_“When a nightingale landed on my hand,_

_When a nightingale landed on my hand,_

_It told me three words in Latin_  

 

_It told me three words in Latin,_

_It told me three words in Latin:_

_Men are worthless_

 

_That men are worthless,_

_That men are worthless,_

_And boys are worth even less.”_

Goodnight liked to believe that, if he sang the song enough, eventually his daughter would understand. And, from the way she grinned at him from around her sugar-tit, maybe she already did.

Ginny reached up a little hand and patted his cheek, cooing softly when he scrunched his nose. He was surprised that she hadn’t gone to sleep yet, since they’d been in the swing for probably a good hour, hiding from the Indian summer heat by gently rocking back and forth, but she seemed to like it when someone sang; Augusta’s quiet voice never failed to put her to sleep, but with Goodnight, she always smiled and listened raptly, and if he stopped, she’d scowl.

Just off the porch, Beau squealed with delight as Othello dragged him by the scruff of his shirt across the yard. He stumbled to his feet, and Goodnight winced at the stain across the seat of his britches. It wasn’t often that he was left solely in charge of the children—at least, not without Mammy or Ruth nearby—and a grass stain was not going to easily win him another chance.

As if able to read his thoughts, Ginny cooed again, dimples popping into her cheeks, her eyes, copies of her mother’s, twinkling as though to say, _You’re in trouble, aren’t you?_

“I can get myself out of this mess just fine, miss, thank you,” Goodnight told her, just as the sounds of voices floated through the open windows of the house and onto the porch. He hadn’t heard the carriage.

“…terribly fine, liked to bit my head off when I tried to get her a glass of water,” Augusta said wearily to someone inside, sweeping onto the porch, wearing a frazzled expression and carrying an envelope. In one deft move, she swooped up Beau, who threw himself at her, with a kiss to his cheek and kept moving to rest against the railing across from Goodnight. “You know, making a mistake once, maybe twice, is all right, but as many times as I fall for them? I must be stupid.”

“You are anything but,” Goodnight reminded her with no small amount of pity. Valentine had not always been the most pleasant sister, but she was his sister nonetheless, and he knew he would do anything for her—and he did not have even half the kindness and patience of his wife. “I take it from that exchange that Sal is still ornery.”

“If you’re ever given the option to stir up a beehive or deal with her during labor, choose the beehive.” Slowly her voice was losing its irritability and returning to its usual slow, soft drawl. Augusta sighed and attempted to swipe a hand over her face before she remembered the envelope in the hand not occupied by Beau. “Oh! I’d almost forgotten. Dorian was showing up just as I was leaving, and he’d brought this with him from the post office. It’s addressed to you, all the way from Charleston.”

Taking the envelope from her, Goodnight couldn’t help but grin at the excitement that had so easily replaced her weariness. He made a mess of the envelope as he slit it open with his finger and wondered who would be sending him a letter from Charleston. With such a distance between Louisiana and South Carolina and so much to do at home, he’d lost contact with most of his acquaintances from his studies, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d written to any of them. He scanned the letter briefly, knowing Augusta was eager to know what it said.

“It’s from a man named Leonard Lyman, old friend of mine. He says he’s gotten married and requests I bring you back east. ‘It’s high time Charleston met your wife, and we’d be delighted to throw a ball in your honor,’” Goodnight said, surprised at the invitation. Leonard had been his closest native friend, and they’d corresponded on occasion, but he’d never expected anything like this. Still scanning the contents, he muttered, “He must have some wife if he’s wanting to show her off even to me.”

“He wants us to come to Charleston?”

Goodnight glanced up to find all the vivacity returned to his wife’s eyes, her day with a ratty Salome all but forgotten. In the one fleeting moment that he met her eyes, he knew he’d already lost whatever disagreement they might could have had, and he nodded slowly. It looked like they were going to Charleston.

Immediately, Augusta set about to prattling out details. “Well, we’d need a day to get to the post office, and we’d probably need a week to get packed and things settled here. It’ll take around, oh, four days to get there, so tell him—oh, but you’ll have to vote on the eighth. Tell him we’ll leave here the fifteenth. How long should we stay? A month? That doesn’t put us home in time for Christmas, though, and your mother would be here all alone, unless she went to Valentine’s. I really can’t imagine…Beau, why is the seat of your britches wet?”

“Ollo,” Beau explained while his mother put him down to investigate his wet spot. She sighed when she saw the grass stain and rolled her eyes up to Goodnight.

“Listen, Gus, I was right here in the swing when Othello started dragging him across the yard, and he was up before I could have gotten to him. He’s perfectly fine.”

“Sometimes I think I have three children,” Augusta told him, rolling her eyes again.

Goodnight wagged his finger at her, doing his best to suppress a smile. “You have a smart mouth, ma’am, and I don’t much appreciate it.”

“Oh, you fibber,” she laughed, her head tipping back in that _way_ , moving to sit next to him. Goodnight kissed her cheek and drew her closer, tucking away the curls that had fallen from her net. “Don’t bother, you know my hair never stays.”

“Yes, but I _can_ appreciate that.” He kissed her cheek once more. “So what shall I tell him? We can leave on the eighth, straight from New Orleans. That would give us time to stay a month and be home by Christmas, if that is what you would like.”

“I’ll go where you choose,” she shrugged.

“You’re forgetting you’re still in mourning,” Goodnight reminded her. She still had half a year before New Orleans would be accepting of her coming out.

“Well, Charleston doesn’t know I’m supposed to be in mourning. And besides, wearing all this makes it worse,” Augusta sighed, and Goodnight did a double-take, causing her to sigh again. “Wearing this just makes it linger. I’m sad, Goody, of course I am, but it’s not good to dwell, and I don’t want to.

“My parents are gone, and I am sad, but there is plenty left to keep us going,” Augusta murmured, settling herself at his side. Beau crawled onto her lap, and with Goodnight rocking them, the four sat on the porch swing while the October afternoon turned to evening.

* * *

After a tense election day in New Orleans, Goodnight and Augusta caught the six o’clock train towards Charleston. Goodnight was obviously glad to leave the city with all its anger and talk of States' Rights behind for the seclusion of their car, where he only had his little wife and their two children on which to focus. Jolly little Beau bounced around their car, immensely excited with all the new glittering things and awaiting adventure, and Augusta, her miniature on her lap, sat on the sofa, laughing gently as she tried to calm him, but she did so only out of habit, not wanting to quell his excitement, which she too felt. They were going to Charleston, after all!

They arrived in Charleston by the end of the week, all beginning to go stir-crazy at the limited space they’d been able to roam. The depot in Charleston was bustling, ladies with their noses in the air and gentlemen with not a single hair out of place, and Augusta couldn’t help but think Goodnight fit in quite well with those gentlemen. For a moment, she wondered why he’d ever returned home to Louisiana when he had likely been so happy here.

Over the crowd, they could just hear someone shouting Goodnight’s name, and gripping Beau’s hand tighter in her own, she followed her husband towards its source, a small, spry man with a quivering ginger mustache and more jump than bounce in his step. Clasping Goodnight’s hand that was not occupied by Ginny, he pulled him into a hug, crying, “Goody, what a sight to see!”

Goodnight laughed and clapped his back. “Leo, you sonovabitch, what a surprise you gave us! Let me introduce my exquisite wife Augusta and our wonderful children, Beau and Ginny. Gus—Mrs. Robicheaux, this is my friend, Mr. Leonard Lyman.”

Her neck heated, and Augusta found herself suddenly bashful, feeling more like a girl coming out than a married woman being introduced to her husband’s friend. Remembering her graces, she dipped into a bow, asking sweetly, “How do you do, Mr. Lyman?”

“Very well, ma’am, very well indeed. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to Charleston,” he replied, lowering into a bow of his own and kissing her knuckles. Augusta couldn’t help but think he spoke funnily, not in the drawl she was used to, but in one entirely different, Charleston sounding like “Chaahs-tun.” He snapped his fingers for his driver to get their luggage.

“So where is she, this woman you’re wanting to display,” Goodnight asked. Ginny, unhappy with not having her father’s attention, tugged on his watch chain, and he handed her his watch with a kiss to the top of her dark head. Lyman snickered at the action, shaking his head.

“She sends her apologies, but she had her hands full getting the ball together for tomorrow. I’m sure you know how it is, Mrs. Robicheaux,” Lyman explained. Once the luggage was gathered, they followed Lyman out of the depot. Goodnight’s usual slow saunter had been traded for a bit of Lyman’s spring, making his steps jauntier, and Augusta grinned at the back of his confident form. Part of her had wanted to come to Charleston just to taste the coastal city for herself, but that was only a little part.

Years ago, at one of the DuBois balls, he had paraded her up and down the hedges, and she had listened to him describe the city so wondrously, with so much fervor, and from his voice, she had fallen in love with more than just Charleston. It never took more than a gentle prodding for him to launch into a tale from his time here, and Augusta adored the look that came over him when he told them, the tone that crept into his voice. He never knew he was doing these things, and afterwards, he’d always question why she was looking at him so curiously. This was the part that had wanted to come to Charleston.

* * *

Nearly an hour later, the carriage arrived at a pale blue house hidden behind a tall stone fence, two long palmetto trees lining either side of the gate. About half the size of their city house in New Orleans, it was three stories, with curved arches about the porch, the upper porch uncovered, and wrought iron railing on the miniature balconies on the side windows.

Augusta had quietly admonished Beau on the ride that if he couldn’t sit still, she wouldn’t let him look out the window, but now she said nothing as he bounced in her lap, his sister watching him for a moment before smiling behind her at her father.

The moment the carriage door opened, the front door flew back, and two women made their way out. Goodnight recognized one as the dowager Mrs. Lyman. The other was much younger, probably younger than Valentine, with blond hair so fair it was almost white, and nearly colorless eyes to match. She carried herself like all Charleston women, in that way Goodnight had come to hate from his time here: pointed chin in the air, eyes half-closed as they looked down a nose, moving at a languid, bored pace with a haughty air that said, _Oh, bless your poor heart._

“Goody, you’ve met my mother,” Lyman said as soon as they were all out of the carriage, “but this is my wife, Luella Lyman. Mrs. Lyman, this is my friend from school I’ve told you about, Mr. Goodnight Robicheaux, his wife Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux, and their children, Beauregard and Genevieve.”

“You must be the little Cajun woman Mr. Lyman said Mr. Robicheaux had married. And just look at you, Mrs. Robicheaux, aren’t you just passionate!” Louella took Augusta’s hands while Augusta hurried to hide a confused expression. Louella fingered the fabric of Augusta’s cobalt traveling suit. “This is such a lovely color! Why, I don’t think any matron in all of Charleston, probably not even all of Savannah, would ever be bold enough to wear this!”

Augusta fumbled for a reply, obviously as unsure as Goodnight was of how to react to such a statement, but Luella bowed and continued, “Y’all come on into the house, now, and get settled,” Louella drawled, making ‘house’ sound like ‘hahss.’

“There’ll be a ball tomorrow night to welcome you,” she continued, leading them through a bright foyer and up a curving set of richly polished stairs. “This is where you can sleep, Mrs. Robicheaux, and right here is where it connects to where the children can sleep. Mr. Robicheaux, I have you across the hall.”

Goodnight and Augusta exchanged a look, one of amused surprise, over Luella’s head. _Separate bedrooms_ , Augusta’s face read. _They actually use those in Charleston?_ They each had their own bedroom at Foxsong and in New Orleans, but that was only a formality for when they’d been moving Augusta, and in three years of marriage, they’d never slept apart. Goodnight wiped the smile off his face and cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I believe Aug—Mrs. Robicheaux and I will be fine in this room alone. And, moreover, part of our things are in the same trunks—you know, shoes in one, our stationary, the likes. It’ll be just as easy for us to be in one room.”

At this, Louella’s small, colorless eyes went so wide it seemed they would fall out of her pale face. Goodnight contained his laugh but pocketed a remark on how she looked like a frightened ghost, and she stammered. “Well, of course, Mr. Robicheaux, as you wish. Had I known people did _such_ _things_ in Louisiana, I wouldn’t have said anything. But, no matter, I’ll leave you two to it. Dinner will be at eight.”

Goodnight turned to Augusta when Luella had gone, and a laugh escaped before she bit her lips. “That look—what do you think of her?”

“I’m reserving my judgement, _Mrs. Robicheaux_ ,” Goodnight said, taking Augusta’s hand to pull her to the window. Across the street lay the harbor, and just past that Fort Sumter.

“Which means you’ve already passed your judgement and just aren’t telling me.”

They both chuckled quietly, and Goodnight, with a deep breath, sighed, “She is the embodiment of Charleston women.”

“Why, _Mr. Robicheaux_!” Augusta clutched at her heart, eyes wide, but then she rolled them. “Oh, but I forget how you are a Louisiana man.”

Goodnight chuckled again. He’d forgotten how formal Charlestonians were. “This may be a longer stay than we expected.”

* * *

The Lymans had invited a few of their friends to dinner, most of them other men from the college with their wives, and Goodnight was glad to see old acquaintances. He had missed them in the first few months after coming home, but, for the most part, they had been put behind him as he readjusted to Louisiana life—and when the neighbor’s daughter had come hopping across the creek.

Luella introduced Augusta to them all as “Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux, the little Cajun woman,” and all the women had said, “Oh, you’re the little Cajun woman we’ve heard all about!”

Goodnight had no qualms about being Cajun—in fact, it was a source of pride at home—and even though Augusta was only half-Cajun from her mother’s side, he knew her father’s English descent had never bothered her. But he could see that every time they described her as such, a rebuke bloomed on her lips, one that Goodnight mirrored. After the fifth lady said it, he had half a mind to tell her Cajuns were not exotic creatures for gawking. He kept his mouth shut, though, knowing any spectacle would soon spread to the whole city, and it was only their first night.

As soon as they sat down to dinner, the men took up what could only be a routine talk of the despicable election outcome and the horror that was Abe Lincoln, which soon turned into a heated cry for secession or war. Or both. The women discussed quietly among themselves the same topics, and by the time the soup was cleared away and conversation had not moved elsewhere, Goodnight watched Augusta’s eyes glass over, as they often did when her sisters were engaged in battle.

The next day passed with Goodnight showing his family the area around the house, during which there was much laughter and many smiles. The ball came with more talk of Abe Lincoln, secession, and war, and several more introductions of, _The little Cajun woman._ Neither Goodnight nor Augusta made any remarks about the social when they retired to bed early in the morning.

That was how the week, and then the next, progressed. The little Robicheaux family milled about Charleston during the days, even venturing out to the beach for a few days, but since November was cold, and Beau was a pain to keep out of the water, they reluctantly went back to the Lyman’s house on the Battery for another ball.

* * *

 _The little Cajun woman._ It had been charming the first few times that they’d called her that, but when it became more frequent than her name, the charm quickly wore off.

Augusta would be the first to admit that she’d had her fair share of difficult women, but these prissy Charleston women were nothing in comparison to her sisters. These Charleston women were amiable and back-handed and batted their eyes so much it was a wonder Augusta’s hair stayed in place. Somehow they all knew Goodnight and tittered their silly heads off about him—or at least, as much as they could and still be respectable. The moment he left the room, they would put their heads together and giggle behind their hands at his elegant, retreating form before they realized Augusta was still in the room. Then they would straighten and smile so sweetly, and they would ask her how a man like that could have ever gotten a woman like her.

And Goodnight had noticed. If it had been a few young girls, newly debuted, he would have kissed their hands, speaking French until they called for smelling salts, and then retreated to his wife’s side where they would both laugh. But this was more than fresh-faced belles; this was a gaggle of belles, matrons, and old maids combined, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes while he humored them.

“Oh, Mrs. Robicheaux, you absolutely have to meet this lady. Miss Caro! Miss Caro, come here,” called Luella, in that grating accent, still referring to women she knew so well with a prefix. Augusta had half a mind to swat the other woman off her arm, but she allowed herself to be toted across the ballroom. Already she had met so many ladies and gentlemen that she couldn’t keep them straight, not that she cared to. Moreover, her feet ached, and she was bored of these balls, which held nothing over the ones during Mardi Gras. Over Luella’s head, Augusta scanned the room for Goodnight, hoping he would come to her rescue, but her husband was nowhere in sight.

“Here she is! This is Miss Caro Rhett. Miss Caro, this is Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux,” Luella said, pausing in front of a dark-haired girl with clever eyes. Augusta thought she could have been friends with this Miss Caro had she stopped looking down her nose. Luella continued, “This is the little Cajun woman I was telling you about. You know, Mrs. _Goodnight_ Robicheaux.”

“Oh,” said Miss Caro, eyebrows raising appraisingly. In a way that reminded Augusta of Valentine, Miss Caro’s clever eyes skimmed over Augusta’s luxurious velvet ballgown and equally exquisite choker, and not for the first time, Augusta cursed Goodnight’s love of fine things. It was bad enough that she was already on display for being the little Cajun woman without her being the most expensively dressed.

Having scanned Augusta, Miss Caro smiled predatorily, barring small, while teeth. “Well, you have a wonderful husband, Mrs. Robicheaux, and we all adore him here in Charleston. He’s such a gentleman, we’ve never been able to figure out why he says in that wretched old Louisiana when he would do so well here. And so talented! Remember that time, Mrs. Lyman, when he shot the piper right in the head while it was flying? Oh, I’ll never forget that. South Carolina would be so proud to have him fighting for her, he’d probably be a captain or major, I’d assume. He’ll be a hero when the war comes, that’s for sure.”

 _He’ll be a hero when the war comes._ No, he wouldn’t be a hero because he wouldn’t go. He’d said time and again he hoped it would never come to war. And even if he went, he’d fight for Louisiana because he was a Cajun just as she was, and they’d never align themselves with Charlestonians, not for all their love of books and music. They’d stay where they had sprawling houses where everyone was always welcome, where the people were friendly and meant it. They’d stay and fight for their _home_.

That was the last straw.

When Miss Caro went on, joined by Luella and another lady whose name was long forgotten, Augusta was thankfully saved from speaking; she didn’t know if she could hold her tongue if she had to answer this awful Miss Caro, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen and already harping on war just as well as all the Mexican War veterans. Her face hot and blood pounding in her head, Augusta mumbled a parting to Luella and hurried from the ballroom, sure that they’d only miss her when they stopped talking long enough to realize their little Cajun pet had gone.

Once she was out of sight, Augusta lifted her skirts and scampered up the stairs. She was so sick of Charlestonians and all their haughty talk of secession, sick of never hearing about anything besides States’ Rights and war and Abe Lincoln. They would all greet her in their strange voices, cooing over her son and daughter, oohing over her dresses and jewels, remarking what a gentleman her husband was, and then they’d have their noses stuck in the air again and be right back to talk about war. Arrogant fools, the lot of them.

Augusta threw back the door to the room they’d been using in a moment of uncurbed rage, and upon remembering Beau and Ginny were sleeping in the adjoining room, closed it much more quietly, leaning against it and closing her eyes. Her throat was uncomfortably tight; Anastasie would cry, Oceane would cry, but she’d been the good one, and so she shuddered a breath and willed it away.

She hated these Charlestonians. She would much rather be surrounded by the DuBoises and Jarreaus and Magees and Millers, even Josiah, even Ansel Delacroix, instead of these pompous coastal aristocrats. She wanted to be laughing in the corner with Mathilde, watching their husbands banter, instead of parading about the room on Luella Lyman’s arm and being introduced as ‘the little Cajun woman.’ She wanted to come upstairs to the nursery and sit in her wicker rocking chair with both her children nestled against her. She wanted to be in Louisiana, at home, at Foxsong; it was all she needed, Foxsong, and Goodnight, and her children.

* * *

“Have you seen my wife,” Goodnight kept asking, but no one could give him a straight answer. She’d been with Louella last they’d seen, then with Miss Caro, speaking with the Butler ladies.

“That little Cajun woman? Last we saw, she was headed upstairs,” one gentleman clarified, and a burst of anger flared in Goodnight. _That little Cajun woman_ had a goddamned name. But he swallowed his pride and jerked his head as he set off for the stairs.

When he reached their room, he opened the door quietly out of fear she was sleeping, but instead, she was bent over at the wash stand, wiping her face with a towel.

Augusta jumped when she heard him and buried her face in the towel before turning away to the window. In such a strange, foreign way, in nothing like he’d ever heard from her before, her voice, very small, quivered when she spoke. “I-I—we went ’round and ’round earlier, but I guess Mammy just got me too tight. You know how she is with special occasions. I told her I wouldn’t go if she did it, but I thought we’d compro—”

“Gus,” Goodnight interrupted, watching with a sinking heart as his wife tensed, still not turning towards him. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge how distant she’d been since arriving, the only time he’d seen the real her when they were out exploring. It was so nice to be back, among others who loved the arts just as much as he did, a rarity at home; he’d found Augusta, but she was the only other one he’d met. “Darlin’, look at me.”

Never one to defy orders, Augusta’s shoulders slumped and she turned towards him with such round, doleful eyes that he found himself crossing to her without even realizing he was doing so.

“Augusta, what’s going on?” He tilted her chin up. “Have you been crying?”

“No,” she all but snarled, recoiling as though he’d burned her. She glowered up at him with her lower lip jutting out just so that it was almost comical, seeing such a childish expression on someone who was anything but childish. Upon realizing her behavior, shame replaced her indignation, and she ducked her eyes, “I’m sorry, I just…”

She drew her arms closer around herself, and though she’d recoiled before, she didn’t back away when he drew her closer to him. “I want to go home.”

Goodnight loved Charleston, but he loved his family more. And he had no interest in staying somewhere Augusta was uncomfortable. And if he was being completely honest, he’d always hated these Charleston women. “All right. We’ll think of an excuse while we pack. I’m sure that between the two of us, we can come up with something just outlandish enough to be believable.”

Another unspoken apology on her lips and in her eyes, Augusta fumbled for a smile and whispered, “Thank you.”

* * *

“I swear, your mammy makes the best jambalaya I have ever eaten,” Ames sighed, stretching out on the sofa, hands folded over his stomach. “I’d come over every day if it meant that she made that jambalaya.”

“Darlin’, make a note of that: no more jambalaya,” Goodnight whispered to Augusta, loud enough that Ames could hear.

“See if we keep having you over for that crème brûlée you’re always hollering for.” Ames pulled out a cigar from his front pocket and took the glass of whiskey that Goodnight offered. Since coming home from Charleston, Ames and Mathilde had made it a point to recommence having dinner at least once a week, citing that they had to spend time with their godchildren. Part of Goodnight believed that really was the reason why they came as Mathilde was spending more and more time cooing over Ginny than she did interacting with them. But neither Goodnight nor Augusta would ever deny them at their home, least of all Christmas.

After he’d poured himself a glass, Goodnight retreated to Augusta's side, pressing a kiss to her temple because he hadn't done so in a while before settling himself in the floor by her feet, leaned against her legs and the chair. Their full stomachs making them sleepy, the only sound were Augusta's Parisian birds in the corner, and if he hadn't already made himself comfortable, Goodnight would have covered them with their blankets to shut them up.

“Augusta,” Mathilde said, voicing what the men were thinking, “I really hate your birds.”

“Be nice, Mattie. We may not get a chance to hear them ever again. We may never get another Christmas together again, either.” Ames blew out a perfect smoke circle and then grinned wickedly at Goodnight; he'd spent months trying to teach himself to do that. Goodnight often wondered what Ames would be capable of if he dedicated himself to more important matters than blowing smoke circles. “Who knows what's going to happen after South Carolina.”

In that moment, Goodnight’s blood ran cold, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Goddamn Ames, bringing up that subject. As far as he knew, Augusta hadn't caught any word of it.

“South Carolina?” She asked, just as expected, and Goodnight sent Ames his most chilling look since Augusta couldn't see his face. “We were just there, what's happened in South Carolina?”

 _Ames, so help me God, Christmas or not, I will strangle you if you don't shut your goddamn mouth,_ Goodnight mouthed to no avail.

“Why, Aggie, haven't you heard? South Carolina seceded.”

“Succeeded? Goody, what is he talking about?”

The sonovabitch _._ “Oh, it's nothing, darlin’. Don't you worry about it.” Goodnight reached behind him to pat her knee, and it was only then that Ames, sucking on his teeth when he realized he'd made a mistake, read Goodnight’s face.

“Goody, how can you say—” To stop her, Ames laid a hand on the back of Mathilde's neck, what would have been a sweet gesture had he not applied pressure. Mathilde finally looked up from where she'd been making kissy faces at Ginny, and Goodnight couldn't have been more thankful that she'd chosen such a moment to further the conversation.

“Oh. _Secession_ ,” Augusta breathed in that small, shaking voice he'd heard in Charleston. There was a pause, and though he couldn’t see her, Goodnight knew Augusta was shaking her head. “How silly of me. I should have known.”

He felt Augusta’s eyes on the back of his head, and he closed his own, trying to plan his words carefully until Ames said, “It's just like Goody said. It's nothing, Aggie.”

For what felt like a long time, the easy, silent companionship that had filled the room was replaced with a tense quiet, save for the chatter of Augusta's birds. Ames and Mathilde tried in vain to share looks discreetly with one another, and Goodnight nursed his glass while he figured out what to do. “Gus, why don't you get the cards? We haven't played Whist in a while.”

Obediently, Augusta rose and swept past him to the game box, and the other three gathered around the card table.

* * *

Mammy was doing laundry in the yard when he rode back to the house for lunch the next day. She didn't even look up when she spoke to him. “Mr. Goodnight, are you fussin’ with Miss Gussa?”

Taken aback by her comment, Goodnight shook his head. She had been uncharacteristically quiet since Ames and Mathilde had left last night, but they weren't fussing. He and Augusta never fussed. How could she ask him such a thing? “No, Mammy, you know that.”

“Well what's wrong with her?” Now Mammy raised up, hands on her hips, breath coming in clouds against the cold December air. Since their engagement dinner, he though he'd won Mammy's approval, but it was clear her loyalty still lay with her baby Gussa.

“I appreciate the show of confidence,” Goodnight snarked, frowning at Mammy as he left his horse by the porch and went inside. Nothing was wrong with Augusta.

But there had been an uncomfortable rift between them during the night, a distance that had appeared instantaneously; she hadn't curled up next to him like usual when they'd gone to bed but had instead required Goodnight to wiggle to her side of the bed and conform his body to hers. Multiple times, Goodnight had cursed their friends for bringing up the subject of secession, forcing the conversation that he'd been putting off since he'd seen the newspaper on Saturday—the newspaper he'd tossed out before Augusta got a chance to read it.

He found his wife by the fire in the parlor, clutching Ginny in her lap while Beau sat next to her with a book, babbling to his mama about what he thought the words said; but Augusta wasn’t quite with him. She glanced up with glassy eyes when he appeared in the doorway. “Is it lunchtime already?”

This wasn’t how he wanted to have this conversation. Truthfully, he hadn’t wanted to have the conversation at all, but he’d known he’d have to eventually. “Darlin’...why don’t you go get a coat, and I’ll have Ruth pack up the basket. We need to talk.”

* * *

“After Harpers Ferry, I’d taken to throwing out newspapers that might worry her. It wasn’t right, but I...I didn’t know what to do, Billy. It was my job to protect her, to protect my family, and there was a cloud of uncertainty always overhead. I didn’t know what was going to happen to the country, I didn’t know what to tell my wife. I drank too much then—not to the point where I was cruel or reckless, but to the point where it made Augusta feel useless.”

Vividly he can recall his wife’s expression when he’d been with the bottle too much. She had a face of glass, and he knew what she was thinking even when she tried to hide it. He can see her eyebrows trying not to come together, her lips trying to remain upturned as she pulled the glass from his grip, a silent plea for him to use her instead. It was then that he’d been washed by guilt and pulled her into his lap, forehead resting against her arm, an apology unsung on his lips.

In the year and a half that’s passed since Goodnight began his weaving, Billy has become accustomed to his surprise editions, stories that come out of nowhere and often take a good deal of thought to figure out what Goodnight means.

Goodnight is flipping over their wet clothes by the fire, stark naked except for the blanket he has wrapped around his waist. Without the cover of his clothes, stark white scars stand out sharply against his skin; there’s a long slash running the length of his left side, and a circle the side of a silver dollar on his right shoulder. He shakes his head. “Before December of that year, we spoke of war the way we warned our kids the boogeyman would get them if they didn’t behave. And then South Carolina seceded, and suddenly the war became much more concrete. Augusta never said a word on it. I didn’t know, Billy.”

Exactly what he didn’t know, he doesn’t say. Perhaps there are too many options to choose from.

* * *

“South Carolina didn't succeed in anything, did they? They left the Union. That was embarrassing of me.”

Their basket of lunch lay untouched on Augusta’s blanket beside them. Augusta sat sideways in front of him between his legs, he facing her, just like they always did at this point. She had her eyes turned up to him, wide and childlike against her plush cheeks, but he knew she was not childlike at all. Goodnight took a deep breath, no idea how to explain the situation. “Well, they think they did.”

“What do you mean? They either did or didn't, Goody, this isn't a game,” Augusta argued, a determined frown settling on her lips, obviously not impressed with his answer. Goodnight was a bit taken aback. Normally, Augusta never minded how he would beat around the bush, but her blazing eyes told him not to test her patience.

“They're part of the Union, and the Union is perpetual. They can't leave.” He had read both the Articles of Confederation and the Constitution; he knew what they both said, and secession was not a possibility.

“Then what have they done,” Augusta insisted, her frown diminishing slightly. 

“Nothing with any sense, that's for sure.” The words came out before Goodnight realized what he was saying, and he expected another rebuke. Instead, her face softened more, and she turned away, gazing across the creek and looking like a child who had just been told Christmas was very far away. Perhaps, like him, she was wondering how this could have happened so soon after they’d just been in Charleston.

“What does this mean for us? Is Louisiana going to do that?” She took his answer like the Gospel, never going to question his judgement; he had long since realized his wife held him on a pedestal almost as high as the one he put her on.

“It means that South Carolina is a nation surrounded by a much grander nation, beckoning to the other states to follow suit. Now, I’m not sure how it’ll pan out, but right now, I reckon there’s a mighty high chance that we’ll join them.” When Augusta didn’t reply, he scooted himself closer to her, tucking a curl that had escaped behind her ear. “What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

“Was this in last week’s newspaper?” Goodnight didn’t answer but felt his ears heat up, and again Augusta frowned. “You threw it out, didn’t you? I wondered where it had gotten to.”

“I’m sorry, Gus, I just didn’t want you to worry.”

“I can choose my worries myself," she grumbled, and then slowly turned her face to him, now devoid of any harshness, replaced by something Goodnight couldn't quite place. Her little hands tugged on his vest, and Goodnight scooted closer to her. Her head fit so well in the crook of his shoulder. "We’re going to war, aren’t we, Goody?”

He knew Augusta was perfectly intelligent, but somehow her question threw him for a loop. Part of him hoped she would never come to the conclusion, and the other part hoped he wouldn’t have to think about it; but he knew Lincoln would never let them do this. His stomach flipped, but even with his heart pounding, he forced his lopsided smile and buried his face in her hair. “That is for us to find out. But listen, Augusta, that’s for me to worry about, you hear? Don’t you concern yourself with it.”

“It affects me too, Goody.”

* * *

It seemed every man in New Orleans had turned out to the Robicheaux house following the news.

There were all five Miller boys and the four redheaded Jarreau sons; Micah Magee with his father Aaron; Valentine’s husband, Sacha Castex; even Louis Petipas, Hattie’s husband, a Lafayette man. Dorian Saucier had arrived too with no sign of Salome, much to Goodnight’s relief, though he expected Dorian was grateful for the time alone. Never far from Ames, Mathilde had disappeared into Augusta’s sitting room, joining her sister Minerva and Olive Delacroix, hidden away on the opposite side of the house; they were the only women who had come, the rest being hurriedly left at home.

Goodnight hoped the women couldn't hear anything that might be said. Judging from what most of them men had told him, their women had no idea what was going on; they'd only watched with curiosity and then fear as their husbands had heard the news from a neighbor and dashed off without a glance goodbye. He knew that the ordeal wouldn't stay hushed like this, if it even was hushed anymore, but he didn't want Augusta to know until there were definite plans.

Some Mardi Gras this was turning out to be.

“To hell with them,” shouted Micah, red-faced and frighteningly sober. Goodnight liked him well enough, but he was a brash man when his mind wasn't muddled by alcohol. “It was high time we pulled out!”

“Here, here,” agreed Ansel Delacroix, the tobacco man Goodnight had only mildly forgiven for his interest in Augusta, and even now he was finding it hard not to take that forgiveness back.

“They've long disrespected us, and now they’ll have to pay for it,” Ames said, eyes twinkling over the lip of his whiskey glass, and Goodnight had half a mind to punch him. Leave it to Ames to stir the pot if he thought he'd get a kick out of it. Now was not the time for that.

At Ames’s statement, a chorus of roars filled the library, some in outrage, others in agreement. Their voices echoed off the walls, and for a moment, Goodnight had an irrational moment of panic that the ladies would hear.

“Gentleman, gentleman,” he successfully tried to soothe. They mostly quieted down to let the Goodnight Robicheaux speak, and he took a deep breath in preparation of how he could smooth things over.

“Now I know tempers are running high, and I know we’re all shaken. But let's remember that there are ladies in the house, children too, and it's up to us to take care of them.” Even Ames and Micah shook their heads at that statement, and for a moment, it seemed they would behave. Goodnight twisted his glass of whiskey in his hand to stop the shaking. “All of us here have at least one person who's our responsibility. Now, we don't know what the next few months will hold, but we need to keep our responsibilities in mind as we choose our actions.”

“What do you mean we don't know what the next few months will hold? Of course we do, war’s inevitable! It's the only thing left,” Micah cried, and Goodnight decided if anyone was getting hit today, it would be Micah. He'd gotten everyone mildly calm until Micah spoke up.

“We shouldn't _want_ to go to war, Micah,” Goodnight implored, his voice betraying him, slightly leaking panic. He didn't have the time or nerves to deal with the parish _and_ his family.

“They've insulted our dignity and morals! Imagine, a Southerner without morals!”

“We’re God-fearing men, the lot of us!”

“Are we not gentlemen!”

“That we may be,” Goodnight insisted, raising his voice to be heard, nearly sloshing out the contents of his drink as his hand twitched. Blood pounded in his head, and not from anger. He just knew Augusta and the other women could hear what they were saying, and he needed to see her. The poor little thing, she was probably wrought with fright, those childish green eyes of her wide.

“Gentleman we may be. And not just gentlemen, but Southern gentlemen at that. We have heart, we have gallantry, we have spirit, and we have our _pride_. But the truth of the matter, men, is that we do not have the necessary measures to engage in war. If we jump into this now, we will find ourselves sorely ill-equipped. You cannot fight a war with plows and pitchforks.”

Everyone stilled and said nothing, blinking like what Goodnight had said had never crossed their minds.

“So what are you saying,” Ames asked eventually, breaking the silence and looking at his friend as if he'd just told him his name had never been Goodnight Robicheaux. He shook his head. “Goody, you're—you're the best shot around. You're a Robicheaux, your grandfather…how could you not fight?”

With a terrible aching pit in his stomach, Goodnight whispered, “That's not it, Ames. I'm just as much a Southern gentleman as you. If it comes to it, if our great state chooses to fight, I'll be there defending her. But we can't be brash with this.”

Judging from their somber faces and quiet mouths, Goodnight hoped he'd instilled some sense in them. He gazed around the room, into the eyes of the men he'd grown up with, men with whom he'd shared all life’s milestones. They weren't family, but looking at them now, they almost felt like it.

“What do we tell our wives,” Elam Miller asked, breaking the silence.

What indeed?

* * *

Goodnight waited on Ames, Ansel, and Micah to collect their wives before he appeared in the doorway.

"Goody,” Augusta whispered from over Ginny’s head, her eyes wider than usual, mouth drawn down. She was trying to be her immovable self, but her face of glass did nothing to hide her worry. She wrapped her arms tighter around their daughter in her lap. “What's happened?”

At his eyes flickering down to Ginny, then Beau on the floor at Augusta’s feet, Augusta placed a kiss on the top of her head and placed her next to Beau, saying quietly, “I'll be right back.” She crossed the room quickly, straight back tense, the swishing of her skirts the only sound as the children watched their mother leave. With her head high and her feet scuttling across the floor, no one would have ever guessed anything was amiss had they not seen her eyes.

“What's going on,” she whispered when she reached the hall, pressing close to him. Goodnight wrapped an arm around her waist, letting his other hand nestle in her hair. Their world had been flipped upside down in a matter of minutes yet again. How was he supposed to tell her that he had no idea what was really happening? And if he didn't know that, how was he supposed to reassure her? This was the sole purpose of men, he thought, to keep women in comfort, and he was at a complete loss on how to do so.

 _Everything is perfectly fine,_ Goodnight wanted to say with a kiss to her head, but he'd never once lied to her. “Louisiana seceded. We’ll probably join the Confederacy soon.”

“Oh, dear God,” she breathed, one hand immediately flying to the neckline of her bodice while the other tightened its grip on his vest. Augusta closed her eyes, mouth set in a thin line, and slowly released a shaky breath. When she opened them again, she'd regained all the grace and poise he'd ever known her to have.

* * *

 

The following evening, Goodnight and Augusta had their weekly dinner with Ames and Mathilde, and while dinner had been kept light, their drinks were anything but. It had started with Ames laughing over how fun it was to rile up the men of New Orleans, and then, like every other conversation recently, turned towards secession. And Goodnight and Ames held starkly different opinions.

“That's not the point, Ames.”

“It's beside the point. We've left the Union, and that's that.”

“But it's not _right_!” Goodnight insisted, wishing with all his might that for once, for one goddamn time, that Ames could not take things at face value but would put thought into what was happening. “We’re making this worse!”

“It's done, Goodnight—”

Slamming his glass down on the mantle and sloshing out its contents, Goodnight roared, “Goddamn it, Ames! Can you think for once? If we keep this up, we’re headed for _war_ , and I have a family to think about!”

Ames’s face drained of color, and his angelic features twisted into something oddly mean and completely foreign. He snarled, “What, Goody, what are you saying? That I don't have a family? I'm married too, remember, you were the best man. And you think that I don't love Augusta and Beau, Ginny? That your family isn't as much mine as my _own wife_ is? Well get your head out of the fucking clouds.”

“That's not what I meant, Ames.” Goodnight’s voice softened, losing vigor as he realized how Ames had interpreted him, as he realized _he_ was making _this_ worse, he was the one riling up easy-going Ames to the point that he was spitting and gesturing madly. Of course Ames had family—he was part of Goodnight’s family. “This state is preparing for war. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Oh, come off it! Like you have any idea what that means. I have news for you, Goody, we’re on the same page for once. None of your fucking books can tell you what war is like. And you know what else? You're Goodnight goddamn Robicheaux. You think they're going to put you on the front lines, that you're going to be in any danger? No, you'll be an officer, and you'll be perfectly safe, and within a few months, you'll be back home with your _family_.”

“That's not the point, Ames,” Goodnight repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was so tired of hearing that sentiment, that because he was Goodnight Robicheaux he was untouchable. Maybe he was, but did that mean his wife and children would be safe if he left?

“Then what is, Goody? Because to be completely honest, I don't know what you're trying to get at. Sit _down_ , Mattie.”

It was only when Mathilde sank back onto the sofa that Goodnight remembered their wives were in the room, witnessing every monstrosity that escaped their lips. Likely Augusta and Mathilde had never thought their husbands capable of such harsh words, of their voices reaching such a level of anger, and Goodnight couldn't bear the thought of seeing Augusta's reaction. He knew that if he looked in her eyes, he'd see the pedestal she'd put him on crumbling, and he couldn't let that happen.

“Get your coat, Augusta. We’re leaving.” When Augusta, eyes frightened and mouth hanging open, remained stunned on the sofa next to Mathilde, clutching her friend’s hand, he snapped before he could catch himself, “Did you not hear me? Let's go!”

“Yes, Goody,” she whispered, popping up and darting towards the hall with her head ducked.

As the realization of what he had done hit him, Goodnight glanced to Mathilde, hoping that maybe she still had some sense in her, but even the lively Mathilde Verret Rubadeau was subdued, her head ducked like Augusta’s, hands folded tightly in her lap now Augusta’s had been taken from her. Just before he slipped out of the parlor, he caught Ames’s eye. The other man held it for just a moment before looking away, his face saying, _We’ve really messed up this time, but I’m too mad at you to fix it now._

Even while he helped her into her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck, Augusta didn't meet his eye but kept blinking rapidly, and Goodnight swallowed hard. He'd never said a single harsh thing to her, never even dreamed about doing it in his nightmares, and that…that hadn’t just been harsh, he’d commanded her to get up and yelled at her when she hadn’t immediately complied. That had been cruel. And the war hadn't even started.

The walk home was silent, and Goodnight’s arm around Augusta’s waist felt like a liberty he was not permitted to have. It was only when Mammy told Augusta about Beau ripping the knees from his pants again that Goodnight heard her voice, soft and tired. He followed her to the nursery, across the hall from their own room, trying to figure out a way to get her to speak to him. He wanted her to scold him for being so rude, yell at him, even hit him, anything besides the quiet dejection she was giving. 

“Mama,” Beau’s sleepy voice drew Goodnight back to reality, and he turned from Ginny’s crib to find Augusta sitting on the edge of their son’s bed. Her long mane of curls, freed from the confinement of her net, spilled over her shoulder, and Goodnight watched with fondness as Beau, disoriented, reached his little hand for his mama’s hair, knowing the feeling that came with having those curls in hand—a feeling he didn’t think he would have anytime soon. “Thought you left, Mama.”

“Oh, my baby,” she whispered with the all tenderness only a mother could achieve, “I'd never do that. We were just with Uncle Ames and Aunt Mathilde.”

Whatever else she murmured to him was unintelligible to anyone else besides Beau, and Goodnight turned away from them, back to the sleeping form of his daughter. The older she got, the more she looked like Augusta, and at the moment, Goodnight couldn’t think of a more terrible blessing. He pushed back a few of her fine, baby curls, then brushed his knuckle across her soft, plush cheek. Maybe he hadn’t wanted girls, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t enamored with his daughter.

At the sound of Augusta’s swishing skirts, Goodnight slowly removed himself from Ginny’s crib and followed her across the hall. They prepared for bed methodically, air around them stifling. Once Augusta had slipped out of her dress and crinolines, she sat down at the dressing table, her jewelry tinkling as she dropped it into the bowl.

Finally Goodnight couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He knew he’d made a mistake, and not just any mistake, but he’d hurt his wife; and a gentleman always owned up to his mistakes. “Gus, I—”

“I forgive you,” Augusta said quietly, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence.

“What,” he asked, caught off guard. Her head was still ducked, and through the glass of her mirror, he watched her bite her lip. For a moment, he hoped she would cry—it would serve him right.

“I forgive you. There's so much going on right now, and you were upset with Ames, and I didn't obey you. It's alright, Goody.”

“That doesn't make it right, Gus,” he insisted, catching her eye through the mirror. She wasn’t a dog, she didn’t have to jump when he said. He’d always known she was perfectly capable of thinking for herself.

“I forgive you,” she said again, moving to section her hair for a braid. But Goodnight didn't miss the fact she hadn't disagreed with him.

He didn’t point that out. Instead, he slipped behind her and covered her hands with his own. When they’d first been married, he had worked diligently to hone his skill until he could braid as effortlessly as she could, and it had become one of his favorite parts of getting ready for bed. As time had passed, they’d slipped out of the habit, and Goodnight couldn’t recall the last time he’d done it. But he sectioned it off gently and went about plaiting it down her back.

When he’d finished, Augusta smiled at him in the mirror, gentle and warm, and bending over, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, saying, “I don’t want to fight with you, Gus.”

“Let’s go to bed, Goody.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy: November 1878-Spring 1879  
> Augusta: Late January 1861-April 30, 1861
> 
> Lincoln's declaration was taken from the April 16, 1861 morning issue of the New Orleans Crescent that I found on Chronicling America.
> 
> Translations:  
> ma petite étoile-my little star  
> J'écrirai tout le temps, et je serai poète et toi poésie-I'll write all the time, and I'll be the poet and you the poetry (a line from François Coppée, a French poet)  
> Vous et vos jolis mots-you and your pretty words

Goodnight wakes up one November morning in 1878 feeling very old and out of place. He’s in a hotel somewhere in Southern California, and like every morning, his mind wanders eastward, to a time when he always woke in a feather bed surrounded by lavish bed curtains. As always, the feelings of regret and pain, of longing, come to him.

The war ended thirteen years ago. He’s had thirteen years to come to terms with the outcome and aftermath, but he’s stewed over his misfortunes so that now he’s nothing but old and defeated.

There hadn’t been a room with two beds last night—not that it mattered; he and Billy have shared a bed plenty of times before, and it's a relief to share in the winter. Now, next to him, Billy stirs gently, his foot brushing against Goodnight’s leg, and Goodnight turns his head to look at the other man. He has his black hair down and splayed across the pillow, his face slack and not displaying any of the hardness the years have given him. They’re similar in that aspect, Billy and Goodnight, but it ends there. Billy deserves more than he’s gotten from this life, but Goodnight, he’s had everything coming for him.

Suddenly something comes into his chest that isn’t regret, pain, or longing. Goodnight can’t quite place it, but he wonders if Rip Van Winkle had felt the same way.

Suddenly he has the realization that he’s been given something good and squandered it, again.

* * *

When Augusta went sweeping into the room with a bottle of brandy, a thoughtful gesture from a good wife, it was more to check on how much the men had really been drinking than to refill their glasses; it may have been Mardi Gras, but it was so nice not sending the women home with drunk husbands.

Augusta couldn’t deny that she loved her husband, from the top of his sandy hair to his well-polished boots. She loved the way he moved with his long, graceful strides, never in a hurry and knowing that when he did arrive, he would be the center of attention. She loved listening to him banter with Ames; even though the noise was entirely too loud, she loved when he hit a target, lowering his rifle from his shoulder with a single huff and glancing over his shoulder to the crowd, giving them a look that asked if they’d thought that was possibly a challenge; even though it scared her silly, she loved watching him ride across the fields with Beau in his lap. And she was addicted to the way, no matter what he was doing, his sharp eyes lit up and focused on her whenever she entered a room.

But as she scuttled into the front parlor and his eyes fell on her, she could tell that, while he always wanted to see her, she had chosen a terrible time. Augusta faltered under his gaze, tightening her grip on the brandy, and wondered if anyone other than Goodnight had seen her come in. Since she had chosen such an inopportune time, though, it was only fitting that she did not have the luck to leave unnoticed. Micah Magee leaned back in his chair with a sly smirk towards Goodnight and folded his hands on his lap. “Let’s see what your wife thinks, Goody.”

“That’s not neces—”

But Micah waved him off and asked, “Tell us, Mrs. Robicheaux, what do you think of this mess?”

Her back to the other men, Augusta felt dread wash her face of any color. What did she think of this mess? She thought it a great deal senseless, that’s what she thought. If Yankees wanted to take away slavery, they were going to be sorely disappointed when they had nothing to produce in their factories, that’s what she thought. Augusta may have lived on a sugar plantation where they had their own mill, but she’d grown up with cotton, and she knew the effort it took to produce both. For the majority of her life, she’d watched as they spent months tending to the fields and then picking the cotton, and she’d watched as they’d shipped it off to factories for processing. Augusta wanted to know how anyone expected the economy to function without slavery.

And while she could have said that to Goodnight and made him chuckle and nod appreciatively, and while she probably could have said that to Ames and made him laugh and congratulate himself on pairing her with Goodnight, she could never say that to the whole of New Orleans society. It was unbecoming of a lady to say such things, much less think them, a detriment to her femininity, and by tomorrow morning, the whole city would be talking about how Goodnight _Robicheaux_ could not control his wife.

Augusta held Goodnight’s gaze, silently pleading with him to prevent her from speaking, but Goodnight said nothing, his mouth in a tight line, brow knitted together tensely. A wave of pity washed over her as she wondered just how long he’d been trying to keep talk civil; if he needed a break, Augusta would fight the battle herself. She took a deep breath and quickly composed herself, putting on what she hoped was a clueless face.

“This mess,” she asked, and then inwardly berated herself for sounding too dumb and sweet.

 _You’re telling a story, Augusta, that’s all this is,_ she thought. If she thought of it like that, in terms she knew so well, she could fool them. Goodnight would know she was lying, and Ames could catch on if he paid close enough attention, which he likely wasn't, but the other men would be none the wiser.

“This mess. Seccession. We’re not part of the Union, anymore, Mrs. Robicheaux. You did know that, didn’t you?”

“Oh, that, yes,” Augusta nodded, glancing once more to Goodnight for help, but he stayed quiet, his sharp eyes saying he had done what he could, but he needed her to fix the situation; she really was on her own. “Well, Mr. Magee, I think that this mess is none of my business and should be left to my husband to deal with. To be perfectly honest, I have no interest in it whatsoever, and if this is the conversation I’ve stumbled into…well, I think I’ll just take this bottle of brandy and be on my way again.”

The room exploded with laughter, and even Goodnight didn't bother to contain the mirth that bubbled. Ames moved to kiss her hand, crying, “Atta girl, Aggie!”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Augusta too smiled hesitantly. Goodnight nodded once to her, his way of congratulating her without anyone knowing, and Augusta’s smile grew. For the moment, the crisis was adverted.

Or it was until Micah pressed, “But really, what do you think, Mrs. Robicheaux? Surely you know we’re going to war any time now, and with a husband like yours, you have to know he’s going to fight. What do you think?”

Augusta felt her smile shrink by a few molars. Anyone else would have been pacified by her answer, but Micah had not heard what he’d wanted to hear.

“I think,” Augusta began slowly, glancing to Goodnight for guidance, “that my duty lies with my husband, and if he must defend our honor, then it is my place, and my only place, to support him in that.”

“Well said, Mrs. Robicheaux,” Micah Magee complimented, and he opened his mouth to say something else until Augusta cut him off.

“And do you know what else I think, Mr. Magee?” Micah gestured for her to continue. “I think that it is Mardi Gras, and we have better things to do than talk about politics. If you'd be so kind as to fetch the other ladies, I do believe this is the perfect night for a ghost story. Wouldn't you say so?”

“I’d say any night is perfect for one of your ghost stories.”

* * *

Goodnight and Ames dodged a carriage as they crossed the street. Mathilde’s birthday was at the end of the week, and Ames had insisted Goodnight come with him to pick out a gift, if only so that he would get better service in the shops. They’d left home around ten that morning, but they’d spent more time goofing off than actually shopping. Five hours later, Ames emerged from the dress shop with a box containing a massive pink muslin dress. 

“Three o’clock already? Damn, I’m ready for a nap,” he yawned, pocketing his watch, and Goodnight shook his head.

“I’m surprised you made it this long. What are you going to do when the war comes?”

"Oh, pooh pooh to you, Goody. I can get along just fine without a nap," Ames quipped back. Yawning again, he still managed to say, "And when the war comes, I'll nap just the same."

"I'm sure you'll be the favorite of all the officers," Goodnight pointed out. In all honesty, though, he could see Ames lying down wherever he was for a nap, saying he would catch up later, but he was tired at the moment.

"Officers?" Ames made a face of sudden surprise, his head jerking up curiously. He studied Goodnight for a moment, who didn't know just what to make of Ames's incredulity. Then, quietly, he asked, “You’re enlisting?”

Goodnight didn’t know why Ames was so surprised. Every able man in the parish would be enlisting, from little Elias Miller to even the hermit, Anatole Tartore, who had fought in the Mexican War by lying about his age and was only able to come home after being rescued by Goodnight’s grandfather. And moreover, it was widely known that there was no man in Louisiana who could shoot half as well as Goodnight. It wasn’t a matter of _if_ he was enlisting, but rather when.

Not that Goodnight particularly wanted to go. The war would last past Christmas unless things in the South drastically changed, and it was only Southern pride that would keep it going that long. He would much rather stay home with his little family until the fire died down and his friends came home with their heads hanging. 

“Why the shock? There’s not a man a man in the parish who isn’t going,” Goodnight asked, and Ames, shrugging, shifted the box in his hold. If he didn’t know better, Goodnight would have thought Ames hadn’t been planning to go. 

“Well, if you haven’t done it yet, we can go now and do it together,” Ames said, still quietly, a bit of a frown playing on his lips, and Goodnight made a noise of agreement. Ames nodded once and adjusted their course. Then his unhappiness dissipated instantly. “So dinner Friday? Mattie has no idea I've invited everyone. Haven’t heard from Blanche yet, but Hattie is coming with her bore of a husband, maybe you can entertain him. And I’ll need Augusta to keep Micah in check, you know Minnie will never do it. And bring the children, Mattie loves them.”

“I can see exactly how important Augusta and I are to you,” Goodnight teased, pushing the subject of enlistment to the back of his mind. This was the Ames he knew.

* * *

When Goodnight came home and into the parlor, he was startled, as always, by the resemblance between mother and daughter. At the same moment, their eyes both lit up, dimples popping into their cheeks, and Ginny kicked her feet happily against Augusta’s side and held out her arms to him. Augusta passed her to him, saying, “I was beginning to worry. You, Ames, and wallets don’t always make for the best decisions.”

“Oh, we behaved just fine, thank you,” Goodnight chided, kissing first his wife and his daughter.  “Believe it or not, we can get on without supervision.”

“I trust you,” Augusta said, taking Ginny from him to put her on the ground. While she wobbled and decided sitting would be easier than standing, Augusta passed behind him, slipping his coat off his arms, and then took his hat. “But where all have you been? It’s nearly supper time.”

And then Goodnight swallowed hard. He and Augusta hadn’t talked about him enlisting—not that he needed to talk with her, but he did respect her opinion. He knew it wasn’t something to surprise her with, though he tried to tell himself it wasn’t a surprise when he was expected to go, just as every man from the parish was going. Maybe he could slip it in and she wouldn’t notice.

“Well, we started towards Adler’s before Ames decided he wanted to go to the cigar store, so we went there instead. Micah was there, and we talked to him a good while before Ames finally started looking for what he wanted. On the way to Adler’s the second time, he found a chair he liked for a few minutes before he said he didn’t know where to put it. By then he was tired of getting on and off his horse, so we took them to his house. Then we were hungry, so we had lunch. We made it to Adler’s, but he didn’t find anything. So we headed for the crinoline shop, and I thought he’d decided on a bright blue petticoat until he said Mathilde might kill him if she opened that in front of people. Next we looked at fabric, and then dresses—he finally got one of those—and then we stopped by the war office and enlisted. Say, Gus, what do you think about a green petticoat? You do look so lovely in green, what with your eyes.”

But from the way she stared blankly at him, face slack, he could tell that his ramblings hadn’t worked. He wanted her to josh, _Ames is very productive, isn’t he?_ or cry, _Goody, what does it matter what color my petticoat is when no one will see it!_ Instead, she only blinked rapidly a few times before she whispered, “You enlisted?”

“Oh, Gus, it isn’t the end of the world,” Goodnight said, aiming to be offhanded to put her at ease but coming off rude. She faltered as though the air had left her lungs, and Goodnight turned away so he wouldn’t see her face, focusing instead on pouring himself a drink.

“I see,” was all she said after a moment, and then he heard the swishing of her skirts. Goodnight turned over his shoulder to find his wife sweeping quickly from the room, their daughter looking between her mother and him in confusion.

They didn’t say any more on the matter.

* * *

“You’re in a good mood,” Billy notes as they ready themselves to leave. Goodnight shrugs. He’s in some kind of mood, but he doesn’t know if he would call it good, necessarily.

They'd made it to San Diego for the winter, and they both admit that was a better choice than last year’s Santa Fe. Here the weather was fairly mild, with no threat of snow, and Goodnight’s joints didn’t ache quite as much in the morning. The people are as friendly as they can be without being Southern. And there was no crossing through Utah territory with all the Mormons—Goodnight wants to push the memories of the railroad out of his mind almost as much as the war.

Now it's spring again, and they're starting a new year. The morning air is fresh, sharp, new; the sky is bright, sunny, new; everything just feels so _new_. Goodnight is in some kind of mood, and when he can't figure out a word to describe it, he relents that Billy was right.

He catches Billy’s eye, and the other man looks like he’s ready with another quip. There’s a beat, and then Billy smiles, close-lipped but genuine, his dark eyes twinkling ever so slightly, and continues turning up his sleeves.

And Goodnight smiles back, just as genuine as Billy. Maybe life isn’t like he planned, but Billy doesn’t make for bad company.

* * *

By the middle of February, near twenty-five thousand men had enlisted in Louisiana’s military. Every other Friday, the parish boys traveled to New Orleans for drill on Saturday, and their wives gathered together in a parlor, usually at the Robicheaux house, to sew uniforms, blankets, and socks. They chatted gaily and rolled their eyes when their husbands came home drunk in the evenings, but always there was an uneasy air lingering overhead.

It seemed to Goodnight that Augusta had taken to following him around more often than she did her own work. She suddenly became much more interested in how the fields worked, and often times he would find her peering over his shoulder as he balanced their ledgers. Whenever he asked what she was doing—or rather, what she needed—she gave him an expression similar to a child being caught sneaking sweets and hurriedly muttered that she just wanted to talk.

Goodnight changed his routine too. Beau enjoyed riding the horse in front of Goodnight, and after lunch, they would go out together, racing perhaps too quickly once they were out of Augusta’s sight. Ginny monopolized his arms in the evenings, even while Beau pretended to read to Goodnight. Augusta would smile at them from over her sewing or knitting, which she always seemed to have in hand now, and sometimes they’d talk about when they should find Beau a tutor. Not that there would likely be any to spare in the near future, but Augusta would do well enough until the shortage stopped. At the end of the day, they took their time teasing and playing while they readied for bed, but they collapsed in a tangle once their heads hit the pillow.

By March, it was clear that though they usually ended up playing during drill, the men of New Orleans were serious about war. Their tones had changed from contempt to hate, and nothing would ease their feelings except bloodshed.

On the Evercreech property, a sprawling garden hinted at fruitfulness. There would be strawberries, watermelons, even a row of pumpkins, when the weather warmed enough, and Augusta was already having a time figuring out how she would preserve it all. When it rained, she let Beau dig in the dirt for worms until he pulled up a handful of half-grown carrots instead, and after that, he wasn’t allowed to dig in the dirt anymore. Instead, he chased the ducks and chickens and was chased by the geese in return, and after that, he didn’t chase any of the birds.

By March, Augusta asked too many questions about the plantation outside her realm to be completely innocent, and when Goodnight figured out what she was doing, he explained in greater detail how things worked. It made him nervous, and he didn’t like it, but he didn’t want to fight with her. By the end of the month, she could balance the ledger without his help and understood the basics of the growing. If she had to do it on her own, she would be able to get by.

By the middle of March, the troops could shoot well, with thanks to Goodnight. How some of them could call themselves Southerners and barely hold a gun was beyond him, but it didn’t matter. They could shoot now, and maybe that would save them. Thanks to the women, nearly a quarter of the men had a uniform of bright red and blue, in contrast to the grey of the other states, and Valentine and Sacha had agreed to donate their horses to the men from the three surrounding parishes who did not have one of their own.

By the end of March, the only topic of conversation Goodnight’s mother could think of was how well her son would do when he went to war. Augusta would scowl and go sweeping from the room as politely as possible, and Goodnight would watch her go with a sinking heart, knowing he should say something but not knowing what exactly. He found himself listening for her quiet hum as she worked and the swift pattering of her scuttling feet, her bright laugh from a farther room; instead, he only heard slow swishes from her skirt.

During the days, Beau toddled after him when he wasn’t clinging to Augusta’s skirts, and Ginny was always waiting for him on the porch with her arms outstretched when he came home just after noon. After the children had gone to bed, Goodnight would lie across the sofa with his head in Augusta’s lap, sometimes singing while she sewed, sometimes memorizing every minute detail of her face as she read. They hurried about getting ready for bed but didn’t hurry about going to sleep.

Somewhere, in the part of him that was responsible, Goodnight knew they were asking for something they didn’t need at the moment, but he pushed the thought away and let himself be overwhelmed by the every wandering curve of his wife.

* * *

"No," Goodnight insisted, shaking his head, "no, you're wrong."  
  
"No, Goodnight Robicheaux, you are wrong. Melville will forever be better than Dickens, and you just can’t understand that," Augusta argued in a voice filled with mirth, her mouth wide in a smile, gazing up at him with glittering eyes from where her head rested on his chest.

"No one likes Melville.

" _I_ like Melville. And since when has the popular opinion automatically been the best opinion?"

They had long since abandoned whispering, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Goodnight noted that his mother or Beau—not Ginny, though, who could have slept soundly next to train tracks—would probably come knocking if they kept this up, but the wonder that was his wife vastly overshadowed this fear. 

The pale moon streaming through their window, the light sparkled onto the bare skin not covered by their sheer, and her mane of curls tickled Goodnight's naked chest every time she moved. The moon set her magnolia-white skin and pitchy hair to stark contrast, and her eyes, those wonderful big green eyes, danced, setting her face into an expression of pure contentment and adoration. In this light, he wondered how anyone could ever see her as anything but beautiful; but then again, this was his light, and his light only. The longer he looked at her, watched her head tip back as she laughed, listened to her teasing, the more she tightened his chest until he thought he would suffocate.

One hand still skimming the soft skin of her back, he used his other to cup her cheek and draw her towards him, her bristly eyelashes tickling his cheek in surprise until she melted into him, and she rolled onto her back so that he hovered over her. 

" _Ma vie_ , oh,  _ma vie_ ," Goodnight murmured, brushing away from her face a few of her magnificent curls, "I'll never understand how I went so long without you."

"Sometimes I don't remember what it was like before we were married. It feels as though I've been here all my life, but I know it's not true." She gave him a closed-lip, sleepy smile, one that reminded him of Parisian balconies. "So I guess we're not just pretending at love."

"Oh I know I'm not pretending. Sometimes I think I couldn't possibly love you more, but then I go and see you searching for a replacement button or pushing yourself on the swing under the oak when you think no one is watching, and you make a fool of me."

"You've caught me swinging?"

"Thankfully." He kissed her again, softer, remembering when it had been his deepest desire to feel her under him, and rightfully so. "If all else perished, and you remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and you were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger."

"Those aren't your words," Augusta teased, her nose scrunching, and Goodnight kissed it too. He didn't deny that he'd stolen the words, mostly because he was grateful to have a wife who knows where they came from. "Do you want to know a secret?

"I want to know all your secrets."

"Well, that first day you came down to the creek and quoted  _Wuthering Heights_  to me, at that moment, you could have asked me to run away and marry you, and Lord knows we'd only had two conversations, but I would have done it in a heartbeat."

"You should have told me." Augusta looked at him curiously. "Had I known, I would have taken your hand and never looked back. It would have saved us two years apart."

When he thinks about those two years, he feels like he was so young when they happened, but they’re still so fresh on his mind, the way her neck had blushed when Micah had helped her from the carriage that very first day, the stripe of orange that marred her cheek when she had painted him, the wonderful warmth of her body against his as she had ricocheted into him from the force of a rifle—that had been their courtship, not the polite conversation from the safety of the Evercreech porch.

He takes in the sight of her lying on their bed and marvels at the picture she makes, and his thoughts stick on the day they’d spent together while she painted. This sight, this picture of her with her mass of curls wild across the pillows, the sheets now tangled around her navel, and thinks she would stand out in the Louvre. “You should be painted.”

Augusta laughed, her head sinking a little into the pillow, and Goodnight couldn’t resist kissing the exposed part of her neck. She petted his hair, asking, “Like this?”

“Exactly like this,” he mumbled against her skin. “And we’d hang it up in the very center of the ballroom. Or maybe the dining room.”

From the way she smiled, he could tell, even in the dark, that her neck was reddening; it was a satisfying feeling knowing that he could still do that to her after six years. “We’d be banished from society everywhere.”

“I don’t care,” he said, drawing away and meeting her lovely, steady gaze with a smile. She hummed in her amused way, and Goodnight fixed her curls down her front. “There. Now you’re a regular Lady Godiva.”

“Fetch me my horse,” Augusta teased, and Goodnight laughed into the crook of her neck. Her arms wound around his neck, and Goodnight let her touch anchor him, breathing her in. Oh, his wonderful, wonderful wife.

* * *

Goodnight had hoped that the war fever would fizzle out within a few months, but still March came and went, and it was April. They traveled to New Orleans every other week for more drill, and the ladies continued to ready the clothing they would need. In all honesty, though, Goodnight was more concerned with what to do for his upcoming anniversary. Despite their horrid trip to Charleston, he wanted to take her somewhere. Savannah was out, as it was just as coastal and aristocratic as Charleston, and Saratoga was probably a bad choice given how high tensions were. His best choice was Williamsburg, unless they went abroad, perhaps to Rome. Wherever they went, he didn't have long to decide.

He was lost in these thoughts as he and Augusta made their way home from having dinner out that evening. She meandered sleepily next to him, seeming as lost in thought as he, stopping here and there to admire gardens or a shop window, and if Goodnight hadn’t had hold of her arm, he doubted he would have kept up with her.

“Extra extra! Lincoln calls for seventy-five thousand men!” A raggedy little boy exclaimed, holding up a handful of newspapers and immediately breaking them from their reverie. Already a crowd was beginning to form.

Together, Goodnight and Augusta immediately halted when they heard the boy’s words. With a single parting glance at her husband, Augusta scampered across the street, narrowly dodging a carriage, and Goodnight hurried after her swishing skirts. She'd pulled a penny from her handbag before Goodnight could even think to so and was forcing it into the newsboy’s hand, wrenching the paper away from him in a way that was more like one of the twins than herself.

“Oh…my stars. Oh, dear God,” Augusta breathed, and Goodnight struggled to read over her shoulder from the way her hand shook. Gently he pried the paper from her grip and wrapped an arm around her waist, letting her trembling form press against his side.

_Whereas the laws of the United States have been and are now opposed in several States by combinations too powerful to be suppressed in the ordinary way, I therefor call forth the militia of several states of the Union to the aggregate of seventy-five thousand, to suppress said combinations and execute the laws._

Before she could see his hand shaking, Goodnight crammed the paper into his coat pocket and guided her down the street. The fervor had not fizzled down, it had only exploded. There would be no trip, probably not even a celebration. This was real, and war was coming.

Before they were even allowed to stay up for balls, Goodnight and Ames had stopped knocking on each other’s doors. Calling for Ames from down the block, Goodnight let himself in, scarcely remembering to hold the door for Augusta. Mathilde, pale and wide-eyed, holding her dress up a bit too high, was scurrying down the stairs, and Ames’s expression matched his wife’s as they met their friends in the foyer.

“What’s happened? The children, are they—” Whatever Mathilde wanted to ask was stifled in her throat. She whipped her head towards Ames and began pleating her skirt. But no matter how much she implored him, silently or aloud, Ames couldn’t fix this, and neither could Goodnight.

Ames merely took one look at the paper ball in Goodnight’s hand and met his friend’s face. “Ah, hell.”

* * *

Instead of taking his arm so they could go home like she should, Augusta kept tugging at his sleeve. “We’re going to war?”

“That is how it seems,” Goodnight answered patiently, holding out his arm so she could take it.

Augusta tugged at his sleeve. “Is Louisiana going?”

“Judging from the reaction to secession, I would say we are. Now, would you like to get home?” Why, for the love of all that was good and holy, did she insist on discussing matters in the streets? Goodnight put a hand on the small of her back and tried walking her down the block, but she didn’t move and let him keep walking without her.

“Goody,” Augusta said, sounding like she was ready to throw herself on the ground and bawl, except she had grown up with that, and she would never do it. Goodnight looked in her eyes, finding them much too wide and childish for the woman she was. He didn't want to face her like this.

“Gus, darlin’, _ma vie_ ,” Goodnight said, pleading with her to move, “please. Let’s go home.”

“Yes Goody,” he thought he heard her say, and she trotted after him to catch up, tugging on his sleeve again until he gave her his arm.

The rest of the walk home was silent, both absorbed in the news. If Lincoln was calling for troops, the South would hardly stand down, lest they be branded cowards, and everyone knew Southern men were anything but cowards. Southern men were brave and honorable and everything that a gentleman could hope to be. They would fight, and fight valiantly, and their world would likely go to Hell anyway.

He took one look at his wife and decided he didn’t want to look at her again, not for the rest of the night. Her perpetual smile was gone, replaced by a tight mouth, drawn down at the edges, and her brow knitted together; she wasn’t her lively self. And perhaps she had plenty of reason not to be. If he left, it would be the first time she’d ever been alone, away from the protective hands of her father and husband. Women never lived alone. But, Goodnight thought, Augusta, smart and tough as she was, would do just fine.

They had never readied for bed silently except for the night Goodnight had fought with Ames, and Goodnight couldn’t think of a more uncomfortable time. He knew Augusta wasn’t quite happy with him, not after he’d enlisted without warning, but he was so used to their nightly banter that he didn’t quite know where to start. He unbuttoned his shirt before he’d taken off his coat and worked on his pants with his shoes still on.

“Will they come to Louisiana,” Augusta asked, and without looking, Goodnight knew she was watching him from her mirror. “The Yankees, will they come to Louisiana?”

“New Orleans is the largest city in the South,” Goodnight muttered, keeping his back to her. He didn’t want to think about Yankees crawling all over where his wife and children were. He didn't want to look her in the eye and tell her she'd need to hide their possessions unless she wanted them raided because the Yankees would swarm New Orleans, and he wouldn't be there to do anything about it.

“Is there really going to be fighting?”

“If we’re going to war, I should say there’ll be fighting.”

“Will there be fighting here?”

 _I don’t know, I don’t know any more than you do, your guess is as good as mine,_ Goodnight wanted to tell her, but it was obviously the wrong answer. So he sighed, saying, “Augusta, if there are Yankees here and a war going on, I’d say there’s a good chance there’ll be fighting in Louisiana. Now, can you please hurry? I would like to go to bed and—”

“Damn it!” Augusta shrieked, throwing the comb to the floor and making such a clatter that Goodnight knew he had made a mistake of biblical proportions. More frightened of her than he could have ever thought possible, he spun on his heel to find his wife red in the face and nostrils flared, green eyes blazing. When she spoke, her voice was cold in a way he’d never heard. “Is this what it takes for you to look at me?”

With more guts than he realized he had, Goodnight tossed his hands into the air and huffed. “What do you want, Augusta? What do you want me to do?”

And then, as if he had slapped her, the color drained from her face. Her body sagged, and she pulled her hands up to cover her face. In all of their years together, he’d watched as a few tears escaped from her eyes only a handful of times, but never had he seen her face crumpled and eyes brimming. Slowly her shoulders began to shake, and if he lived a hundred years, he hoped he never saw this again, how he made his wife cry.

“I want you to tell me we’ll be safe.” Taking her hands away from her face, she finally looked him in the eye, tear streaming down her lovely round cheeks. Her voice was low and quaking, lip trembling. “You're all I have, you and our children. I want you to tell me I'll still have that. I am _scared_ , and I want you to acknowledge that.”

“Augusta,” he sighed, and closed his eyes. He'd made his little wife cry. If his father could see him now…Even though he didn't feel like he deserved to touch her, Goodnight stepped closer to her, expecting her to shy away, but as upset as she was with him, Augusta leaned into his touch. Maybe it was all she wanted. Wrapping her in his arms, he petted the back of her head. “Gus, I'm sorry.”

“Goody,” she sobbed, burying her face in his shirt as she grabbed fistfuls of the material. He didn’t move, but let her cry as she needed while he thought about what he’d done, listening as she begged and pleaded for him not to go.

When she’d had her moment, he sat her down on the edge of the bed and smoothed her hair, which was not out of place but which he knew she liked. She had never been like this, eyes swollen and red, lovely round cheeks stained, drawn into herself as if searching for any source of comfort, and it was the worst light he could ever imagine seeing his wife in. Goodnight wiped his handkerchief under her eyes, drying her face before he spoke.

“Augusta. Darlin’. Listen to me.” He took her hands and moved closer. “ _Ma vie_ , everything will be fine. It’s just like my mama’s been saying. I’m the best shot around, there’s no way I can’t go. Our name carries a lot of weight, and you know that. Now, we could buy my way out, but if I go they’ll put me in a high rank. I won’t see the fighting, I won’t be in danger, and when I come home in six months, which is how long maximum this thing will last, you’ll be married to a war hero.”

“But what about us? What about Beau and Ginny? What are we to do? Goody, please don’t go,” she gasped, launching into a fresh round of tears. “Please...please, Goody. Please don’t leave." 

“Oh, darlin’. Sit up and dry your eyes. This _war_ won’t last six months, Christmas at the latest. I’m not leaving. You know I couldn’t leave you. Not _ma vie_.”

Even though she was quiet, he could see the _please_ on her lips, just barely being contained.

* * *

When they returned home to Foxsong a few days later, they had just under two weeks before Goodnight left.

In one aspect, the surrounding parishes buzzed with life at the coming war. There was a wedding nearly every other day, and Louisiana celebrated like never before. If men were were awake, they were drunk and raucous, and if ladies were awake—which, with so much to do, they rarely slept—they were perpetually cooking and baking, fixing the parlors and dining rooms, hemming this dress or polishing those boots. In this one aspect, war had never brought more happiness.

But in another aspect, Goodnight felt like he was putting his affairs in order. He struggled to find balance with spending enough time with his family and fixing Foxsong as it needed. The fence in the southwest field had fallen over, but Ginny wanted him to play the piano for her. The cabins in the village needed to be patched, but Beau wanted to trek through the woods for bugs.

Goodnight did find time for one thing: revisiting a lesson he had taught Augusta years ago.

“You’ll be of no use with this rifle,” Goodnight relented. He may have favored a rifle over any other gun, but he also favored Augusta over any other person. No matter how good of a teacher he was, he had to admit that it wasn’t in her best interest. With a reluctant sigh, Goodnight pulled the little silver revolver from his waistband and dropped in the bullets. In his opinion, real men used rifles; then again, Augusta wasn’t a man at all.

With a sigh and eye roll, Augusta passed the rifle back to him. “I don’t need to shoot.”

“Who will shoot then?”

“Sam. Daddy taught him when it was clear they wouldn’t be having any boys,” Augusta said. She scowled at the offered revolver but took it.

Well, that was a slight relief. At least they wouldn’t be relying strictly on Augusta’s shooting abilities. Goodnight situated her arms. “Finger on the trigger, but don’t pull. There. Your other hand wraps around that one…use both your thumbs to hold it steady, and don’t put them in front of the cylinder or you’ll hurt yourself. Put your arms out but don’t lock them. There. You hold a gun just fine.”

“Well, maybe they’ll be so impressed that they’ll just drop dead,” Augusta grumbled, but he could hear in her voice that she’d amused herself.

“Don’t get smart with me, ma’am,” Goodnight sniggered, although that may have been their best hope. “All right, fire when you’re ready. Hate what you're firing at.”

When all six shots were discharged, they were left looking at a piece of paper with five holes, all around the edges. Goodnight nodded. A few more tries, and she would be fine, so long as her target stood still. And so long as she kept her head. And remembered what he’d taught her.

They’d practice more than a few more times.

* * *

"The week before that first time you met me here," Augusta said, "I had trekked down, but as I was trying to get down the embankment, the dirt crumbled. I fell right into the water. I saved the book, but not my dignity.”

Goodnight laughed into her hair. With his wife joking and their children contentedly finishing their lunch, the sun shining brightly and the breeze blowing the willow branches languidly around them, it almost seemed as though everything was right in the world. He sipped his julep, feeling the loss of her body when Augusta leaned forward to help Ginny with her shoes, and pulled her back against his chest. She muttered something intelligible but made Beau come to her when he wanted his britches rolled up.

As his children ran to the creek, Goodnight felt a surge of pride. He never thought his fishing trip six years ago would have led to this, but he wasn’t happier with any other decision he’d ever made. All because of that fishing trip and this little spot under the willow by the creek, he had a beautiful home, and a beautiful wife, and beautiful children, and he was absolutely and utterly content.

“You’re quiet today,” Augusta noted, leaning her cheek against his when he rested his chin on her shoulder.

“I’m thinking,” he said, and Augusta hummed in response. He kissed her cheek, and when her dimple appeared, he kissed her again. “I’m thinking about how anyone could ever want more than this, and how one day, we’ll have a whole passel of curly-haired children, and one day when we’re old, we’ll sit here just like this with our twenty grandchildren.”

“Twenty,” Augusta cried, her head tipping back towards him as she laughed. He pulled her closer to him. “We need to get to work on the rest of our children if we’re going to have twenty grandchildren.”

“Mrs. Robicheaux, how vulgar of you,” Goodnight chided at her implication, a chuckle rumbling low in his throat. 

“Mama! Mama, come play,” Beau called from the creek.

With a glance over her shoulder, Augusta released herself from Goodnight’s hold and said that her duty was calling. She smirked, raised her top skirt, and untied her petticoat, letting it fall to the ground, and Goodnight cocked his eyebrow at her. She said nothing but tucked her skirt into the waistband of her pantalets and waded out to her children. Sipping his julep, Goodnight sat back and watched serenely as she splashed with Beau and Ginny, how they climbed on her. Letting out a cry, Augusta tumbled fully into the water and came up spluttering amidst her laughter, Beau and Ginny throwing themselves onto her so she couldn’t get up.

Mammy would skin his hide and tan it when he brought all three of them home soaking wet. He could hear her scolding about letting the girls’ skin freckle and getting Miss Augusta’s hair wet because it would take the day and night to dry out and probably still be wet by the time they made it to New Orleans the next day, and Beau had enough trouble keeping his clothes intact without sloshing around in the creek. Which meant there would be no harm in him coming home the same way.

So he took off his boots and socks and rolled up his trousers too. All of Mammy’s scoldings would do nothing to dull the feeling that came from hearing his children shriek when he joined them.

Later, after the sun had begun to set and they knew they were late for dinner, having lain on the bank to dry themselves, having at last christened their sacred place while the children slept, Goodnight meandered back to the house with his family, Ginny in one arm because she would never walk if he was available to carry her, Beau bouncing along as usual, Augusta, with her hand in his, by his side. As always, by his side.

Later, after years and years had passed, Goodnight would look back on this day as his most fond memory.

* * *

“There’s nothing I can do to make you stay, is there,” she whispered, voice tight, her wonderful green eyes looking like they should be filled with tears.

If only she knew.

Flames from the single candle on the bedside table threw shadows around them, making crescents from her eyelashes across her cheeks, and Goodnight fixated on the fact this would be his last time seeing her in this light for a few months. He wouldn’t wake up tangled with her, her hair falling from her braid and tickling his nose; in two days, he wouldn’t wake up to her at all.

“With every breath you breathe, you tempt me to say,” Goodnight murmured into her neck, and she clutched him to her.

* * *

“Sam, can you do something?”

Fog rolled off the ground and around the drive, obscuring the grass in a green haze, and the sun was just beginning to poke out from behind the line of trees. Whip-poor-wills called from the branches, and the frogs croaked loudly from all the way down at the creek. It was the kind of spring morning that Goodnight liked to observe from the swing on the back porch, the kind that made him feel like he wasn’t living in the world at all, and from his place on the front steps, Foxsong looked like it had just come to life from a painting. No place in the world would ever compare to a Louisiana sunrise.

Inside, Augusta and Mammy were trying to get the children ready, their voices resounding through the open door, Augusta telling Beau that if he wouldn’t put on his shoes, she was just going to have to leave him at home. Goodnight and Sam both chuckled and hoisted the single trunk over their heads. They were loading up the carriage for the ride to New Orleans. Compared to their past trips, their luggage was light, and Goodnight was more than a little unsettled at the fact he only had a knapsack. Usually his things took up at least two trunks, filled with glittering accessories, suits, and boots, but now Augusta was the one with the massive trunk, though it also contained things for the children.

Sam knotted the rope to hold down the trunk and then wiped at his brow with his forearm before he turned towards Goodnight. “What is it?”

“Look after Augusta and the children. Make sure they're safe.”

“Of course,” Sam almost scoffed, shaking his head. It was silly to ask Sam to do such a thing, but Goodnight had to ask.

Since the night when they’d read about Lincoln’s call for troops, Augusta had remained calm about the situation. There had been a near meltdown when Mrs. Robicheaux remarked to Augusta, who had been putting the final touches on the Zouave uniform Louisiana had chosen, that Augusta would finally know what it was like not to have a man in the house. Augusta had stabbed her needle so hard that it had gone clean through the uniform and well into her hand. She had thrown down the uniform and all but stomped from the room, muttering about needing a bandage, and Goodnight had followed to soothe her down, throwing his mother a look that was not quite respectful.

He had no doubt that, under normal circumstances, Augusta would be able to take care of herself just fine. Their overseer was staying, and a distant cousin from Mrs. Evercreech’s side was prepared to run the blockade should it come to that; they would have money and a harvest. But Augusta had been right to worry about Yankees coming to Louisiana. The Chesapeake, Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah, Mobile, New Orleans—all were major Southern ports, and if the Union hoped to do any damage, they would surely target these areas, and damn it all if Foxsong wasn’t right on the way to New Orleans.

And then Mammy’s voice sounded from inside the house again, followed by the rest of the family’s, and their footsteps thumped down the stairs. Goodnight smiled when he caught sight of the little procession coming towards them, but Sam broke him from his reverie.

“Between you and me, I don’t think there’ll be much for me to do.”

* * *

Surrounded by hundreds of other tearful families, the little Robicheaux clan huddled together at the train station.

Goodnight kissed first his mother, who stood with a dazed, teary smile, looking as proud as if he had already saved the South single-handedly. She didn’t say much but just nodded and wiped at her eyes. Then he bent down until he was level with Beau, until he was met with his own eyes. Wonderful, Sunday's child Beau, whose trembling lip and fretful brow was something utterly unfamiliar; he may as well have been adding weights to Goodnight’s shoulders, the way his son’s face made him feel. Taking a deep breath, Goodnight said, “Now I'm going away for a little while, not long. By the time I'm back, you won't have realized I even left. But I need you to do some things for me. Will you do them?”

Unsure of what was happening, Beau put his fingers in his mouth but nodded, his other hand holding tightly to Augusta's.

“Son, I’m not going to be home to make sure you act like a man, but you be respectful, and you mind your mama and granny. You treat them right, you hear? And don’t wear your hat at the table, and don't pick a fight but don't run from one either. And have the courage to do what you think is right. Can you do that?”

Beau’s eyes filled with tears, but again he nodded and glanced up towards Augusta. Goodnight could only imagine what was going on in his son’s mind, watching everyone else cry and seeing his beautiful, happy mother so mournful, the mother who he adored, who he never saw upset. If she was upset, the world must be ending.

As Goodnight looked down at Ginny in his arms, she frowned at him as if she knew what he had in store and tightened her little fists around his bright blue coat. _Traitor,_ Augusta’s eyes in his daughter’s face read, for how dare he ever pawn her off on someone else? He chuckled as he pressed a kiss to her black curls, but his chest twinged; he had never spent more than a few hours away from them.

“Don’t you go getting any prettier, now, _ma petite_ _étoile_ ,” Goodnight told her, and then tried to pass her to Sam. Her little fists held on tightly, and when she was finally pried away, she uttered a muffled squeal and burst into tears, which then made Beau push his face into Augusta’s skirt and cry too. Ginny threw her arms around Sam’s neck and regarded Goodnight as though he had just broken every ounce of trust within her. 

Having said his goodbyes to everyone else, Goodnight summoned his courage and met his wife. Augusta stared with a face of sad defeat at a place on his coat, and with Ginny gone, she dropped Beau’s hand—which only served to make both children cry harder—and picked invisible lint from his coat. They had said a sort of strange farewell this morning, spending too long getting out of bed, too long getting ready, dancing around the subject of war. They’d kept catching themselves forgetting to go about their business: Goodnight, socks in his hand, watching Augusta while she shimmied her petticoats flat, and she’d blushed when he found her staring at him, absently trying to put an earbob on the ear that already had one. But their morning did not suffice. 

Goodnight held out his hand, and Augusta, almost as dazed as his mother, immediately stepped forward and looked around as if she wasn’t sure how she’d moved. He rubbed his fingers across hers, so much slimmer and daintier than his would ever be. These hands had been so captivating to him once upon a time, when he hadn’t been allowed to touch them and had been forced to watch as they flitted while they told a story or toyed with something distractedly. He was a fool for taking any part of her for granted.  Although, he was beginning to think he was a fool for a good many things.  

“This isn’t quite how I imagined our anniversary would go,” Goodnight admitted, and she forced something like a smile. 

“Well, you know how things go for us. Regular reading sessions turn into secret rendezvouses, and near death provides you with the opportunity to formally call. And you know we’ve never been one for big celebrations,” Augusta shrugged, but their gazes said that it mattered a great deal.

“Eat a whole cake for the both of us when you get home, all right?” But his teasing didn’t go quite as planned, and Augusta grimaced, shaking her head and making her curls bounce.

“No, I don’t think I will. If I think about you being gone, I might lose my mind.” 

“Oh, darlin’, it won’t be long.” 

“That’s what I pray,” she said quietly before he could say anything else, and Goodnight could only draw her closer. He wrapped his arms around the little belle waist and buried his face in the curls that were no longer contained in her net, his stomach jumping as she held him closer. What an incredibly public display. 

 _This is where you belong,_ something in the back of his mind told him, but instead, he took her face in his hands and, in French to make his point, murmured, “ _J'écrirai tout le temps, et je serai poète et toi poésie_.”  

“ _Vous et vos jolis mots_ ,” Augusta laughed, choking on her own words. Goodnight traced a thumb across her cheek, her lovely, childish cheek. She looked up at him with those captivating green eyes, wide and sad and trusting, and it was the end of his self-control; he bent down and kissed her in the middle of the train station, ignoring his mother’s cough. 

“I love you, Goody,” she whispered hurriedly when he pulled away at the whistle.

“I love you. _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_ _, ma vie,”_ he answered, and took the handkerchief that she pressed into his hands. Goodnight kissed her once more, smiled at his family, and glanced into her eyes one final time. If it was to be his last sight of her, he wanted to remember those eyes long after he’d said goodbye.

* * *

On the thirtieth of April, just as the sun was turning the sky pink and orange, Sam was carrying wood to the kitchen for the breakfast fire when he saw Miss Augusta wander out onto the back porch in her bare feet and dressing gown, her hair knotted in a braid. It was a surreal sight, and he half expected her to float across the misty fields, white gown mingling with the fog and black hair standing out sharply. She didn’t levitate, though, but swept her gaze over the misty fields and moseyed over to the swing.

Sam sighed when he saw her still out there on his way to the smokehouse for bacon, but if she’d seen him, she gave no indication. Perhaps he would be taking more care of her than he’d thought. Not wanting to alert his mother, knowing she would descend upon her baby Gussa as if she was dying, Sam slipped into the house and up to Miss Augusta’s room and back to the kitchen.

“You’ll catch a cold out here like this,” Sam said, breaking her from her reverie.

“I don’t know how long I’ve been out here, Sam, but it wasn’t until a moment ago that I realized I was just sitting here, not moving an inch. And then I realized, I’ve only ever pushed myself in the swing under the oak. Whenever I’ve sat out here, it’s been with Goody, and he’s always been the one to push us,” Miss Augusta said in a low voice. She slowly turned her big eyes towards him, and instead of the lively, vibrant gaze he’d grown up with, he was met by one that was hazy, unfocused, as though she was staring far past him. “Sit down a moment with me, will you?”

“Will you put on your shawl? And drink your coffee?”

The faintest of smiles cracked Miss Augusta’s lips, and she held out her hand, saying, “Give it here, you mother hen.”

When she had wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, she took the coffee from him and sipped disinterestedly, holding the mug under her chin while the steam wafted upwards. She had gone back to not looking at him, and Sam couldn’t decide which he preferred. “I’d forgotten what it was like to sleep alone.”

“He’ll be home soon,” Sam told her, sitting down on the swing, feeling a little out of place. It had been so long since he and Miss Augusta had talked alone. She had become much busier now that she was married, but Sam would never complain after how good marriage had been to her. Most women, it seemed, became dull and old the moment they married, trading their bright, girlish dresses for a new last name, but under the utter adoration of her husband, Miss Augusta had become the grande dame that all belles aimed for, vivacious, graceful, charming. She had devoted herself to her little family and reaped the benefits of their love, and Sam couldn’t have wished anything better for her.

But he had the awful feeling he wasn’t speaking to the same person. 

“Do you think so,” she asked, taking another sip of the coffee. She startled as the swing rocked back, but Sam didn’t stop pushing it.

“Of course,” Sam said, for how could the war take long? Had the South the same manufacturing as the North, the Yankees would be sent packing in a matter of weeks, for Southern men were devoted and wild and fearsome. But the fact of the matter was that it was like her husband had said. The South had no manufacturing, and wars couldn’t be fought with pitchforks against pistols. The Yankees would have them whipped in a matter of weeks, but the Southern boys would make them work for it.

Miss Augusta nodded slowly and drained the contents of her mug. She swallowed hard. And then she rose to her feet. “I suppose I should get dressed. There’s plenty of work to be done.”

* * *

“Arcade. Billy Rocks.” They’ve done this too many times to count, but nothing ever keeps Goodnight’s stomach settled. Billy has hands like lightning. It’s just that one of these days, Goodnight knows their luck is going to run out and they’re going to find someone with hands like greased lightning.

A gun—Goodnight sucks in a breath through a cigarette—two more shots, the clanking of cans; at least no person was shot. “Billy wins.”

Goodnight lets out his breath in the form of smoke. _Billy_ _wins_. He’ll never get tired of hearing those words. Billy goes retreating to Goodnight’s side amid the protests of his opponent and the spectators. He has a face of stone, but Goodnight feels in the air around him Billy’s smugness. He admires that about him.

“Come on you scum-sucking runt of a man! Double or nothing!”

Goodnight shares a look with Billy, and even with his face of stone, he knows what Billy is thinking. Goodnight’s look tells him not to get them in trouble—he’s old and wearing out of always throwing around his name to smooth the feathers of the racist old hens. But there’s no need for him to warn Billy, for he’s already made up his mind. Set in his face of stone, Billy’s eyes say that this man has made his last mistake.

He strides back out to the center of the corral, drops his hat to the ground, belt jingling as it falls too. Goodnight smirks. Billy has one of the quickest draws and some of the surest eyes he’s ever seen, but there’s no way they would have been able to stay together for so long if Billy wasn’t as much a peacock as Goodnight. This time, there’s only one gunshot, and the body that hits the ground is too heavy to be Billy’s.

With less satisfaction than should be normal, Goodnight hops off the fence, flicking his cigarette away; the fight is over, Billy is safe, and he has no need for it anymore. He sends around his hat to collect their winnings.

“Goodnight Robicheaux?” Oh, another boy who grew up reading his name in the newspapers. Goodnight has no desire to deal with a fan, and he keeps passing his hat. No matter how helpful it can be to throw around his name, he wants so badly for that time to pass behind him. “Sam Chisholm sent us.”

Goodnight stops dead in his tracks. He hasn’t seen Sam in years. Since after they left New Orleans, even after Kansas. After their lives had gone up in smoke. Sam, who kept them afloat during the war and stuck by his side after New Orleans. Sam, who he abandoned. Augusta’s Sam.

 _Well_ , Goodnight thinks, _it looks as though I cannot leave this behind me._


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty short, but I needed a bridge for the last chapter and the next. I'm also swamped with finals stuff at the moment, though sadly, this is almost taking more priority.
> 
> The dates are included, but this spans from June 1861-April 1862.

_12 June 1861_

_Ma Vie,_

 

_Tomorrow we finally depart for Virginia. Ames and Micah, along with most of the regiment, think the whole thing is nothing but larks, and quick war or not, I wish they'd buckle down._

_I'm not sure what to make of Micah, despite having grown up with him. Excluding Ames, I know a couple of names here, but none are as familiar as Micah Magee. In our more primitive days, he and the Miller boys ran amuck together, and it was guaranteed that if we were with them, Ames and I would end up in trouble—or more so than if I had just been with Ames. I do so hope that does not carry over into present times, though judging from the journey here, I wouldn't count on it. I believe this is the first time in his life that he’s gone without alcohol and pretty belles, and the mix had put him in a bad temper that seems to be simmering down. Usually loquacious and silly, he lacks Ames’s charm to get away with things, and I'm not sure how pleased our commanding officers will be._

_Between Micah, Ames, and myself, we've met plenty of people. There's a man named Wilkes from Georgia, along with his two redhead friends, twins who could give our own Hattie and Mathilde a run for their money; the three are from the country and are wild bucks, not the aristocratic snobs from Savannah. Wilkes is full of Southern honor but without the good sense God gave a June bug. He’s fine to talk about books and music, and I do greatly appreciate that, but Lord, Gus, if he isn’t depressing. Honor this, and Götterdämmerung that. He too was recently married before he came. It makes me feel old. There are so many men here with new wives, men who can't tell you how their wives sleep, what it feels like to wake next to them. At night I sometimes think that is what I miss most from home._

_One of my friends from Charleston is here, though I use the term lightly. He’s a Mobile man and stayed down the hall, and we interacted only as a last choice, but a familiar face is a familiar face. I'm remembering now every reason why I never liked him. However, he gives me someone else with whom to chat, after Wilkes has driven me mad, and this way I don’t wear out Micah and Ames. Though you know I don't have a problem making friends—give me a few weeks, and I’ll have everyone here waving to me._

_As for Chatham Roberdeau Wheat, what a man he is. He could be Salome’s male counterpart; that is, if she possessed any kindness and a head for words. Debonair and hulking, his very presence silences the troops. I have yet to figure out this silence when he’s been nothing but charming and humble, despite his time in the Mexican War. At time, while he strides through camp muttering soliloquies of great beauty, I think perhaps he is a man after my own heart; but he is excited about this war, and that is the end of our similarities._

_Not even two months have passed, and I miss you more than I ever imagined possible. It wasn't until the train was rumbling away that I realized we had not spent a night apart in four years. My dear, my darling, my love, ma vie, I do so hope that will be the hardest part of this endeavor._

_We’re departing east in the morning, and I expect that we should see the first of the fighting soon. With any luck, the first will be the last—though, in a way, I do hope the Yankees have an ounce more fortitude than that. Nonetheless, my longing will grow with every mile that passes between us. I pray this letter finds you well and keeps me in your thoughts._

 

_Madly,_

_Goody_

* * *

An hour after the battle had ended, after Jackson’s reinforcements had sent the Yankees running in panic, smoke still lingered in Goodnight’s nose, and his shoulder ached from the recoil of his rifle thrown back repeatedly.

In the few months since they’d been gone, Ames had thinned down considerably, losing most of his youthful, jovial roundness. Goodnight, sitting across the fire from his friend, observed this for the first time, and he wondered if it was the loss of weight or the aftermath of the first battle that left Ames’s cow eyes looking too large in his face. If Ames noticed Goodnight’s staring, he gave no indication but kept drumming his fingers on his knee, unable to stop moving—Ames, who was an expert at remaining motionless for hours. There was no sign of a joke either on his lips or in his eyes; this wasn’t Ames at all.

Finally he turned his startled expression to Goodnight. “I have an awful feeling like we’ve been duped.”

Goodnight nodded silently and glanced down. For once, Ames was being perfectly perceptive. New, untarnished gray uniforms had been stained red, and men had fallen at their feet, men who had expected to be gone only a few months but who would never return home. They had won, they had watched the Yankees flee, but all their gallantry and courage had not made them invincible. This would not be as easy as they’d expected.

“Can’t get that goddamn sound out of my mind,” Ames continued, breaking Goodnight from his thoughts.

“Cannons?”

“Hell no. I mean that awful hollering Jackson’s men did. Sounded like a herd of banshees screaming,” Ames snorted. When a smile broke out across Ames’s face, Goodnight couldn’t help but laugh, which was joined by Ames. Jackson’s charge had been accompanied by a bloodcurdling screeching that had scared Goodnight so badly that he’d almost missed and shot one of his own men.

But Ames sobered, the disappearance of his laughter leaving a dreadful silence. Goodnight wondered if he could smell the smoke too, see the men dropping here and there, but the part of him that didn’t want Ames to know how shaken he was wouldn’t let him ask.

“You…did you bring your rosary,” Ames asked suddenly.

Again, Goodnight nodded. When he’d been packing, it had been one of the first things Augusta had checked that he’d had. He hadn’t touched it except for when his fingers brushed by it while he searched through his bag. For a moment, as he remembered Augusta’s careful checking, he felt a flash of guilt.

In the evenings when they hadn’t been out, Augusta had been the one to gather the family in the parlor and lead them in prayers. Sometimes Goodnight had been more focused on watching her, knelt at the table with her beads in hand, her lips moving in quiet, warm recitation, awed by the utterly peaceful feeling she could bring over Foxsong, and more than once he had caught Beau doing the exact same thing, although he tried very hard to pray like his mother.

When Goodnight met Ames’s eye over the fire, it appears he was thinking the same thing, and they stood wordlessly to go to their bags. Augusta had deliberately made sure he had his rosary. Augusta could make things better. He couldn't write her like he usually did when he felt overwhelmed; if he did, his hands would shake so badly she wouldn't be able to read his handwriting, and he didn't trust himself not to write the details of what he'd seen. That had been his first thought coming back to camp: Augusta could not know what battle was like. She needed to remain blissfully ignorant, just as he had been, as they all had been. He couldn't write Augusta, but she had sent him away with another comfort. Now, though, without her, Goodnight wondered if he would even remember the words.

He would have to remember them, though. There were too many horrific scenes playing in his mind, and this was only way he could think to get them out. He rubbed his fingers over the beads while Ames searched his pack for his own, and when he’d found them, they knelt and crossed. There was silence for a moment before Goodnight realized Ames was waiting on him.

Goodnight thought back to home and pictured Augusta knelt before the table, her head bowed over the elaborate gold and pearl rosary she’d been given after the wedding. He could see her with her curls falling about her cheeks, escaping from their hold after a long day, and the tranquil expression on her beautiful face. Her lips began moving, and Goodnight immediately recalled the words. “Our Father, Who art in heaven…”

* * *

_1 October 1861_

_My love,_

 

_Yesterday we celebrated Ginny’s birthday. Mathilde dropped by for dinner with the little pony you and Ames had wanted to get her. Sam helped her ride it around, and the moment he put her on it, Beau dissolved into tears that he couldn't ride a horse like daddy. I suppose this will be the period he throws tantrums. It was so sudden and brief that we could only laugh, but Mammy scolded him for fussing on his sister’s birthday, and then she gave me the stink eye for laughing. I suppose I only encouraged him. Oh, what a terrible mother I am!_

_As for Beau, he sees me writing to you so often that I think it makes him jealous. He wants to learn his letters now so that he can write to you too. We’ve spent a few moments every day on them, and though he hasn't gotten the hang of holding a pen, he understands his alphabet now. He can pick out a few words in his books too. He's smart, Goody. Maybe we’ll need that tutor earlier than we thought._

_On a different note, it may amuse you to hear what happened this week in the city—Mattie found it hilarious. She’s afraid to go to the city alone, so we go together. She’d broken all her needles or lost them one, and there was to be a ball to benefit the Cause on Wednesday. It’s our own fault that this happened, I think, or yours. You see, Mattie and I have become a bit inseparable since you and Ames left, and we tend to move about the city together. You know how our name stands in Louisiana, and with Mattie at my right hand, she’s taken quite the reputation herself. Well, we were at the ball, just chatting away with a rather large group of other ladies, when all of a sudden, Dr. Auvin was at my side._

_“Mrs. Robicheaux,” he said with this devious little smile, and then he greeted the others but addressed me. “My dears, I do believe I have quite the favor to ask of you. The hospital is going to need all the help it can get if New Orleans is to do our brave men justice. I was wondering if, perhaps, you would be interested in nursing.”_

_If I was similar whatsoever to the other ladies, I must have been terribly shocked. Me, nursing! I’m such a frightful nurse! Why, I barely manage to stay conscious when I help deliver babies, I can’t imagine truly nursing. The only good I do is to wipe foreheads and bring water. But I couldn’t very well deny it either, so I stammered that I would. Mathilde snarled at me but agreed too, and then the other ladies were dazedly shaking their heads._

_But, oh, it gets worse! Then he asks, “And, Mrs. Robicheaux, forgive me if this isn’t my place, but I know Saltmore Hall is vacant now with your parents gone. Would you consider letting us use it as a convalescent home?”_

_I just don’t know what happened, Goody. I don’t have a clue what I said. But not a few minutes later, Dr. Auvin was making an announcement congratulating me and my allies for our selfless dedication to the Cause and thanking me for allowing the Confederacy to use Saltmore Hall. Mathilde laughed and laughed until I reminded her she would be right by my side, and then she asked what I’d gone and agreed for. So it appears that we have use for Saltmore Hall now. Hooray. We’ll have to have more beds brought in, I suppose. Lord knows where we’ll put them._

_I really don’t know how I shall manage this, looking after Foxsong and its inhabitants and now running my own hospital. Secretly, I almost wish that Dr. Auvin will forget about it, but I can’t be so certain after he announced it to the city. I hope, though, that this means that somewhere in Virginia or South Carolina or wherever you may be, a woman is doing just as I am. We’re all fighting the same battle, after all._

_Tomorrow Mattie and I are to return to New Orleans again. We’re to start nursing the next day, which is sure to be an adventure that I’ll tell you all about. Fingers crossed there isn’t a repeat of the Castex ball, not since the only people to rescue me this time are Dr. Auvin and Mattie. You make for a much better knight._

_Eternally,_

_Gus_

* * *

With great reluctance, Augusta and Mathilde, wearing their least favorite calico dresses that were usually reserved for baking days, their arms linked together and aprons in hand, swayed down the street towards what felt like doom.

They knew fighting was bound to come to Louisiana, with her shining pride of New Orleans, but as of yet, they hadn’t seen many of the consequences of war, or even heard much, for that matter. Only venturing into the city every so often, both women had stayed tucked away at Foxsong or Aurore, consumed with the tasks of caring for those on their plantations and making sure their land produced for their families and the Confederacy. But Augusta had been recruited to be the ringmistress of the nurses, and she knew she couldn’t escape this task.

Simultaneously, both women tightened their grips on one another as they ascended the few steps toward the building that currently served as the hospital.

The rancid smell hit them the moment the door opened, and Augusta immediately shielded her nose with her apron, afraid it would not help the wave of nausea that was already washing over her. She clutched Mathilde’s arm tightly, but the other woman was just as pale as Augusta felt.

“I can’t do this, Mattie,” Augusta whispered. She had been foolish to agree to help the doctor. The only nursing she was good for was sponging off foreheads and occasionally helping to deliver a baby; she would faint the moment she stepped inside.

But Mathilde shook her head, lip trembling. “We have to, Augusta, we just have to. What about…what about Ames and Goody?”

Augusta frowned. She considered telling Mathilde not to suggest such a thing, but Mathilde had a point. Their husbands were so far away in Virginia, in the area where it seemed most of the fighting was taking place. Suppose Goodnight or Ames needed medical care, and suppose the hospitals there were understaffed and the women refused to pull themselves together enough to do their part in the war effort. She couldn’t bear the thought of Goodnight not receiving help because of selfishness.

Augusta closed her eyes and inhaled as deeply as possible through her apron.

She wasn’t a nurse, and neither was Mathilde, but their husbands weren’t soldiers either. If Goodnight and Ames could fight, then surely she could nurse.

She took Mathilde’s hand and they went inside.

* * *

_9 December 1861_

_Ma Vie,_

 

_It’s been too long since last I wrote, and I am filled with guilt at my abandonment. With the winter months approaching, we began to make a more permanent camp. Ames, Micah, and I, along with two men named Ballou and Howell, have erected a hut of sorts, and it’s no Foxsong by any means, but I think you would be proud of us all the same. It’s barely roomy, though the little space keeps us warm, and we can bed down all right. Most of our time has been devoted to making a camp; now we have a little village with huts (some not as handsome as ours, might I add), two sutlers, and a church (but Protestant)._

_I imagine I’d like to experience a Virginian winter if I had you here—as well as a proper house and many coats. Nothing will ever compare to Louisiana, but Virginia is beautiful enough, if not too cold. We woke one morning to find the ground covered in a thin, powdery layer of snow. When Ames opened his eyes, he blinked twice then flailed madly he was so startled at the stuff. I don’t think most of the men have ever seen snow, and that day was spent playing like children in it, though it wasn’t anywhere near as fun in the evening when we were wet and cold. Good God, I’ve never been so cold in my life. As beautiful as the snow is, I do believe I will be more than sick of it by the end of winter._

_I do believe I will be sick of many things by the end of winter. With a permanent camp, all the time we have spent marching—and that is most of our time—is suddenly frighteningly free. We cannot spend so long drilling, and there is not nearly enough material to read or songs to sing to occupy all those hours. Perhaps, between Wilkes and myself, we can gather enough men to do a production of Shakespeare. I’ve always thought I would make a marvelous Macbeth. If not, I’m afraid tempers will run short, and, as you know, short tempers and guns are a rotten mix._

_My darling, I confess that I cannot tell you how sorry I am to see that it is winter. No one thought the war would creep on this long, and I have a sinking feeling in my heart that it is only beginning. It will take a great deal, too much horror and bloodshed, for the Confederacy to surrender, and I’m beginning to believe the Yankees have a sense of pride that is almost Southern. My darling, I must confess how sorry I am that I am not with you at this moment. I think now that there is nothing more delightful than pressing close to you on cold winter nights or sharing steaming coffee on equally chilling winter mornings. You look achingly beautiful in the mornings with your coffee held close as you let the steam warm your face. Christmas is more than ever a time for family, and you must now how I adore you, that there is no place I ever want to be more than by your side. And besides, you do have the best fruitcakes in all New Orleans._

_I believe I will stop now, before my heart grows too heavy and my words become illegible. However far apart, I wish you a Merry Christmas—you and our dear children._

 

_Madly,_

_Goody_

* * *

_25 December 1861  
_

_Goody,_  


_Oh, nothing will change you! For this I am glad, but just imagine: you’ve gone away to fight in a war, and you’re still trying to recite Shakespeare. I can picture you now, standing atop a canon and shouting the St. Crispin’s day speech. You’re too much._

_I put up another tree in the parlor for you this year. Sam laughed and said your nonsense had rubbed off on me when I asked him if he could cut one down for me, but we went trekking down to the woods anyway. Ours is not as big as the one you brought. (And it went up more easily than yours did!)_  
  
_I must say, though, we had a little accident while trying to put it up. Sam and I thought it was stable (how ever did you have it standing?), and we'd turned our backs for just a moment when there came a great scream and a thud. Oh, Goody, I was afraid I'd killed her! There Ginny lay flat on the floor with the bristles all around her, mouth wide open in surprise. Sam moved before I could even think—he dotes on her almost as much as you do—and when she didn't move, I thought she'd broken her back. Thankfully, the trunk didn't hit her, just scared the tar out of herself. She hasn't stopped frowning at the tree since. Beau laughed a little. Once I knew she was all right, I couldn't blame him._  
  
_Earlier in the week, the hospital had a Christmas bazaar. Personally, I think the women did a wonderful job at setting it up. We had candles in all the windows and tables, red and gold streamers, holly on all the tables. Everyone turned out in their most festive attire, and it was so good to have a party again. When I think about it, I can't remember there being a party since last fall, not an honest, un-frenzied one. All the parties before you left were so harried and frantic, and last Mardi Gras was a bore, to be nice. But with the bazaar, it was almost like the old New Orleans, all gay and spirited and friendly, everyone in their best, bright silks and satins and bows galore. Your mother paraded Beau and Ginny around while Mattie and I manned our booth, which didn't last very long since your mother, Mattie, and I had made our very best desserts—quite the team, we make—and no one was able to resist. But I must admit that I was almost sad when it came time for the dancing. There were so few men, and half the ones that were there had been in the hospital and were not as nimble as the girls were used to. They opened with a reel and finished with a waltz, and I tried not to take it personally, but I did. I thought about you and the dancing we used to do. We're so very good at dancing together, and we always opened and closed. Next to me, Mattie made jokes, but her expression said she was trying too hard to smile. I think it hit us then that it was Christmas and neither of us were with the people who mattered most, and suddenly the bazaar didn't seem quite as gay._

_Now, at the time I write this, it is very late and Christmas is probably over, and Mattie, who came over for dinner and didn't want to go back home, sits next to me at the table in the boudoir, writing a letter of her own and laughing to herself occasionally; I can only imagine what she is telling Ames. We've had as jolly a day as possible without you and Ames. I read the Christmas story from Daddy's old Bible, and Mattie brought a whole basket of oranges for the children, which we all ate until our fingers and faces and clothes were sticky. Ginny had orange juice all in her hair; I ended up having to bathe her again, and Beau was right proud that he had been tidy enough for once not to warrant another bath. I've put them to bed now, with Beau adamant that I tell you Merry Christmas from him. So, Merry Christmas, and may you be home by the next one._

_Mattie is finishing her letter, I believe, but I don't want to be finished. My heart feels like it is bursting with things to tell you, though I'm not sure I know what. Maybe that is just my heart bursting with longing for you. The past few days have not felt like they should have taken place. I was meant to spend my life next to you, I know that with more certainty than I've ever had about anything, and without you, things simply do not feel as though they should be. I miss you, and I hope Christmas found you well. All my love goes to you, but, if you feel like sharing, give a little to Ames and Micah as well._

_Eternally,_

_Your Gus_

* * *

With so much to do, winter passed quickly, and as a rainy March turned into a pleasant April, Foxsong focused its attentions on preparing for the summer, planting the gardens and sugar, airing out the house, packing away winter accessories.

After spending the past few day at the hospital, Augusta wanted nothing more than a hot bath and bed. Her feet ached, as did her back and shoulders, and her stomach had been rumbling for half the day now. But she'd come back to Foxsong to find Beau and Ginny had been playing in the mud, and her own apron and calico dress had been soiled during her work, so she'd given the children a bath before setting about to washing any clothes that could possibly need laundering.

Now she stood in front of their armoire, the one in what was supposed to be Goodnight's room, looking through the clothes that could need washing. Her simple green calico would be the color of smashed peas if she kept washing it as often as she did, but the bottom of the skirt was ringed in mud; she couldn't wear it out like that. And the yellow one was such a terrible color on her that it could use some fading. She tossed both to the pile on the floor.

Passing her old dresses, her hands fell onto Goodnight’s coats. Her fingers lingered on them fondly, the rich colors, the familiarity of their wear. They felt like him, and he always felt safe. Strong. They felt like Goodnight, and Goodnight felt like home. She gathered one to her, remembering how it felt to press her face to his chest while his arms wrapped around her. He had been gone nearly a year now, and her only interactions with him came through letters, for which she was always grateful but which were never enough. Her nose burned and her eyes prickled, but she buried her face in the fabric and willed the feeling away. This wasn't so bad, not compared to what he was enduring. 

Though the sun shone brightly outside, something in the distance rumbled. For a moment, Augusta was reminded of a train, but the train wasn’t close to them, not at all. Wondering if another storm would ruin her washing, she dropped her hold on the coat and unlatched the door, stepping onto the balcony. The sky was clear as crystal, blue and sharp, the wind a little chilly but hinting at the coming spring. She looked around, hunting for any sign of thunder but found none. When she glanced to the yard, she found Sam and the children doing the same thing, Beau frowning at the sky for interrupting his play.

“There’s not a cloud in the sky,” she called while Sam shrugged, but still the rumbling continued, far away. And then the sound of furious hoofbeats turned their attention to the long drive. Augusta moved to the edge of the balcony to see better, and Sam came around the house just as a horse galloped into view.

Fair hair streaming out behind her, jostled from the hold any pins may have had, Minerva Verret Magee streaked into view, sitting completely astride on her horse and showing the entire world her pantalets underneath, all the way to her knees. She was hunkered low over the animal’s neck, both wild, beautiful creatures. When she saw Augusta on the balcony, she skidded to a halt. “Yankees, Aggie! I saw them, the Yankees are coming, they’re going to New Orleans!”

All at once, Augusta’s blood chilled, and she grabbed for the railing. Yankees couldn’t be coming to New Orleans, not after a year, Yankees wouldn’t be in New Orleans; she didn’t want the Yankees to come to New Orleans. But still the rumbling continued, and Augusta saw the fear in Minerva’s eyes.

“Minnie, come inside,” she cried, already moving to run downstairs. She couldn’t let her ride around with Yankees on the way, not little Minerva Verret—Minerva Magee. She’d never forgive herself if something happened to Mathilde’s baby sister. “Minnie, come in now!”

“Can’t! The Jarreau place is past yours and right on the road,” Minerva called back, already kicking the horse into action.

“Minerva!” Augusta shrieked, panic settling in, but Minerva was gone.

Yankees. Yankees were coming.

She had heard so many horror stories of Yankees in the East, stealing, burning…taking liberties with women. That couldn’t happen here, not at Foxsong. Her heart raced, and not from being laced too tightly. Her home, her children. A prayer fell to her lips as she dashed from the balcony, leaving the door wide open, and scrambled in her bureau for the gun Goodnight had given her. It felt heavy in the pocket tied around her waist, but she supposed it was better than having Yankees in Foxsong.

Augusta nearly slammed into Sam as he came running through the back door, Beau and Ginny at his heels. “What do we do?”

“I’ll get a trunk from upstairs. You grab the silver and money,” Sam said, moving her out of his way.

 _Everything is valuable in this house,_ Augusta wanted to shout at him with a stomp of her feet. This was Foxsong, home of the Robicheaux family. They had jewels and art and who knew what tucked about. But she darted back up the stairs for the wallet anyway, for they could buy new silver if they just had the money.

“I’ll pack up some food,” Mrs. Robicheaux exclaimed, passing Augusta on the stairs.

“And tell the overseer and foreman to take the livestock to the creek!”

Where would the hide everything? There was no time to dig a hole, and if there was, it would be obvious. They had to get everything out of the house and barns, lest the Yankees set it on fire. Augusta wracked her brain. They could tie a rope around the trunk and string it up in a tree until the Yankees had gone and they had a better place for it, although that would take a good deal of effort. Maybe Sam would know what to do; he always knew what to do.

When she turned around to hurry back downstairs, she caught sight of Beau and Ginny standing in the doorway with wide, fearful eyes. Ginny twisted her skirt in her little hands, pulling it up until her bloomers showed, and Beau sucked on his fingers. They must have heard them say the Yankees were coming. Oh, the poor things. They only knew their daddy was gone because of the Yankees, and now they were coming for them.

“Mama,” Beau asked quietly, voice wavering. Augusta bent down and gathered them to her. Ginny wasted no time in cuddling to her, and Beau patter her arm, though Augusta wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure her or himself.

“Oh, my baby, it’s all right, it’s all right,” she soothed, even while her heart threatened to leap from her chest; she prayed they couldn't hear.

“Yankees are coming,” he said, eyes beginning to water as he met her gaze.

“Not for us, honey, they’re not going to get us. They’re not coming for us,” Augusta tried, but the children did not seem convinced. Yankees were worse than the monsters under their beds.

The dull rumblings continued to crescendo, and, closer now, something exploded like a sharp clap of thunder overhead. Beau grimaced, pulling himself closer to Augusta, but Ginny shrank back. She clapped her hands tightly over her ears and, dissolving into tears, wailed, “Daddy, Daddy!”

Augusta was with Ginny on that one. She so badly wished Goodnight was there and that they could all cling to him, or huddle together while he picked off the Yankees one by one from the safety of the balcony. Like her children were doing, she wanted to sit on the floor and cry for him, or tighten her fists in his coat to keep him close.

His coats! Augusta glanced over her shoulder to where the armoire stood open from where she’d been looking for laundry. Prying Beau from her skirt, she crossed to it and removed three of Goodnight’s coats. Beau let out a cry upon seeing her rip them from their hangers. “Daddy’s!”

If she hadn’t been so frightened, Augusta might have laughed; Beau’s expression said he thought she was practically committing treason.

“I know, honey, I know. They’re Daddy’s. And isn’t he very brave and strong?” Beau nodded reluctantly, and Augusta knelt in front of them again. “So let’s put these on. That way the Yankees won’t stand a chance against us.”

Ginny thrust out a hand immediately, keeping one over her ear, and tugged the coat around her shoulders. It swallowed her little frame and pooled about the floor, but she put down her hands, waiting for her next instructions with fearful bravery. Beau, not wanting to let the Yankees get him and no one else, wasted no time in donning one himself. Augusta slipped her own arms through the remaining set of sleeves, knowing she looked ridiculous; somehow it didn’t matter because it felt like Goodnight and her children didn’t look quite as scared anymore.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Augusta pulled close her children, her single direct connection to Goodnight. She had heard about plenty of homes and families that had been ruined by Yankees, but Foxsong, Goodnight’s life—she couldn’t let that be one of them. Yankees were coming, finally, and as she held her children to her, she resolved that his legacy would remain.

With their armor on, Augusta took each of the children by the hand and marched them down the stairs toward a battle of their own.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finals week. Look at me, avoiding my responsibilities.
> 
> Billy: Spring 1879; or, when the movie takes place.  
> Augusta: June-October 1862
> 
> 8OrangeMatilda8, maybe NSFW?

"That Sam Chisholm from New Orleans?” Billy asks when they're alone that night. Or as alone as they can be around a campfire with seven other people. Stooped next to Goodnight like he’s ready to spring into action, he watches the man in question, who is just far enough away from the fire to be hard to spot in the night.

“That he is,” Goodnight answers with a faraway glaze in his eye and the ghost of a smile on his lips. Sam hasn't aged a bit. He's dressed nicer, black clothes never seeming to get dusty on their travels, but he's more somber now, less likely to flash his wide smile—although, Goodnight shouldn't expect more after how things ended.

“He's not what I expected. Very articulate and polished.”

Goodnight laughs lowly. “Yeah, well, he worked in the house, and Augusta adored him. She taught him to read and everything, always introduced him as ‘my friend Sam’ no matter with whom she was speaking. I wouldn't be surprised if I walked up and asked, ‘Comment vas-tu?’ and he replied with, ‘Ça va bien.’”

Truth be told, he's not exactly what Goodnight expected either. Sam was always so level, immovable, and able to let things roll away like water off a duck's back. This mission he's undertaken, it's something Goodnight would have done, had he been able to so much as get himself out of bed most mornings. Goodnight had been extraordinarily surprised to hear what Sam wanted to do, but then he'd seen the lady with him, and...well, Goodnight gets it. She can’t be thirty if she’s a day, asking for help with Bogue, and with hair as hot as Oceane’s and a scowl to rival Salome, it’s no surprise she reminds Sam of their past.

He understood what was going on the moment he heard Sam’s name and Bogue’s in the same sentence, but he's not sure he's on board for revenge. He's never seen how it fixed things, and he's grown so tired of killing that he can't imagine how it would ever make anyone feel better. But then again, maybe he just hasn't killed the right person. He's never found out who specifically was responsible for Louisiana, but he knows he can't very well murder the entire Union army—he spent four years doing that, and look where it got him. 

He doesn't know what to make of Sam barreling into his life like this, but he knows he owes Sam, and a gentleman always repays his debts. He knows if Augusta had been here and heard what Sam wanted, she wouldn't have batted an eye about going with him, so long as her husband had said it was ok. He's long since forgiven Sam, letting that resentment slip away, realizing he had made choices he regretted, one of them being Sam himself. Sam, who had stuck by his side, and Sam, who he’d abandoned. 

He doesn't know how much help he'll be, if he'll even be any. But he never could say no to Augusta.

* * *

_1 June 1862_

_My dearest husband,_

_Salome and her children had been staying with us after she did battle with the Yankees (and how she lost, I'll never know. Yankees must be even more foolish than we thought), but when the city fell, Anastasie and her family fled to Foxsong. Salome herself would not be too insufferable, she’s quiet enough on her own, and I don’t mind the children whatsoever. But how Anastasie was ever able to live with Salome in the first place is beyond me; they’ve never been able to get along._

_All they do is bicker bicker bicker. The children combined don't fight as much as they do. Ana wants to nag at me, and Sal wants to gripe at me, and neither wants to listen to the other. Being productive for once, they decided to help me make cookies for the hospital today, and I had just poured my sugar in the bowl when Ana started in. She said, “The way I do it at home, Augusta, is that I start with the flour. And you have three eggs, I use two.”_

_“Oh for heaven’s sake, Ana. Will you ever stop nagging? We know Augusta is competent enough to at least make cookies,” Sal snapped. All she was doing was just sitting there looking sour. She's never been one to cook either, not even sweets—another rotten trait of the Evercreeches._

_Now I may set fire to the water for stew, but I can bake perfectly well. I was ready to snap back at Sal (you know how they bring out such a terrible side), but there they went just bickering in their screechy little voices. The least you could do is help, Sal. The least you could do is not be so infatuated with the sound of your own voice, Ana. Bicker bicker bicker. Finally I sent them back to the house. I wanted to send them to their rooms with no supper._

_New Orleans isn't so bad off, even with the Yankees there. They've put in their own governor but let the Confederacy keep their power too. I don't quite understand it, but I'm not going to complain too much. (But, oh, how I grudge them for sending Ana to me!) Mathilde and I are still able to go every few days to do our nursing duties. When we walk down the street, she sticks to my side like our dresses were sewn together and snarls at the Yankees, but they don't do much. Most of them even tip their caps to us! I never thought I'd see courteous Yankees._

_There were some not-so-courteous ones, though. I may have accidentally lost my temper with them, but I think you would have too. Sam was driving me on errands—he says he doesn’t feel comfortable with me going by myself when there are Yankees crawling over the city—and he was helping me into the buggy after I had been in the mercantile when a pair of them walked by. Goody, you wouldn’t believe the awful things they said to him. I wouldn’t dream of saying that nasty to even Oceane—they even went so far as to call him my pet! Why, we were in such a state of shock, neither of us knew what to do, and as I sat there, my only idea was to beat them over the head with my basket. I had half a mind to do it too. I’m afraid my exchange became quite uncouth before Sam reeled me in and started the horse. He drove away laughing to himself and said he pitied the person who really made me snap. I was too embarrassed to reply._

_A few of my nieces and nephews have started going to New Orleans with us too, and now I have a line of children who follow behind me. A duck and her ducklings, we are, going up and down Bourbon. What a merry little band we make._

_Theodore was the first to start coming with me, which makes me think they're only coming to get away from Sal, who terrifies them, and Ana, who is terrified of the Yankees and refuses to go near the city; he follows right behind me wherever I go, at Foxsong or New Orleans, but he's quiet and sweet and plays well with Beau and Ginny despite their age difference, and Ana has nagged most of his backbone right out of him. He asks about you often. You have quite the admirer._

_I’ve hidden myself in the boudoir for a rare free moment, and there’s a yelling for smelling salts that’s reminding me I haven’t told you my bad news. I must have really done something terrible for God to punish me so._

_The number of people in our house now totals eighteen. Perhaps you know by now, but if not, the Yankees made it to Baton Rouge,_ _setting the place on fire, and frightened Oceane so much that she decided she'd be safer here with us. Her children said she fainted every other mile along the way. If only the Yankees had scared her just a little bit more._

_Goody, I just know I'll kill her before this war is over. I can’t handle all three of them at once, day after day._

_Stars above, Goody, you have no idea of the chaos that has befallen. Every time one of the children cries, it’s like the end of Oceane’s world, how she faints and wails. She and Anastasie refuse to do any work, and for the most part, Salome just glowers at everyone and calls them “bitch.” While she may not be prone to dramatics, I'd forgotten how harsh she could be. Her children pull at her skirt, and most of the time, she acts as though she doesn’t feel it._

_I must say now, I do so hate the Yankees._

_On a lighter note, the boys have taken to working in the field, except for Oceane’s son, who is only six and provides help for Sam and a friend for Beau. I’m thankful for Julien and his easy temperament, for I don’t know what we would do if there were two small Oceanes running around. Sam seems to enjoy the company of the boys, or else he pretends like he does._

_In the evenings, I sit on the parlor floor and play with Posie, Solomon, and Cosette, since Salome shows no interest in doing so; I’ll give that much to Anastasie and Ocean, that at least they try to be mothers, and Oceane more than Ana. They’re intelligent, and Posie makes an excellent chess player; we read every night, the girls to either side while Solomon nestles in my lap and reaches up a hand to my hair, which you know has fallen by then. He sucks his thumb, though I try to discourage it while Salome pays no mind. While we read or play a game, she insists on knitting a blanket; I am determined she is playing Penelope and unwinding it every night while she is alone._

_It's a relief now for the night, when I can tuck myself away from everyone. Sometimes Beau and Ginny creep into our bed; the first time I saw Ginny do this, I was coming from your mother’s room, and all I saw was a little shadow creeping across the hall. I almost died of fright thinking we had haunts, but she was just wearing one of your dark gray coats over her head. She misses you so much, and so do I. She says she’s going to marry you when she grows up; I’ll let you be the one to break the news to her._

_Ana is screaming downstairs, and one of the children is crying, which means I’ve let myself indulge in you for too long. I continue to pray for your safety. I pray that you may come home and see the work that we have done, that you may see how beautiful your children grow. I pray that you may come home that we may finish the life we had planned._

_Il y a longtemps que je t'aime._

_Devotedly,_

_Your Gus_

* * *

The horse sloshed through the creek from Foxsong toward Saltmore Hall and bounced Sam in the saddle as much as his nerves were bouncing. After sending the children—all fourteen of them—out the door, Miss Augusta had taken her basket of books and cookies to the slave village and spent her morning there. Sam had gone to bring her home for lunch, only to find she had left some time earlier.

Now Sam was worried. Between the house, the village, the city, and the parish, Miss Augusta’s days were long, and often she was called away at night just as she was beginning to finally settle in. His mother was getting irritated by her antics, and Miss Augusta was one skipped meal away from Mammy following after her all day long with a tray in hand. More than that, there were Yankees in Louisiana, and unless she only had to sit prettily in the saddle, Miss Augusta wasn’t much of a rider.

Finally, the rows of sugar gave way to Miss Augusta’s prized garden, spanning nearly two acres, the only other place Sam could guess where she would be. Sam was almost relieved when he saw her horse, the little dapple gray mare she’d argued with her father to get, but when there was no sign of her, the relief quickly vanished.

“Miss Augusta,” he called, scanning the garden rows; unless she was in the corn, she wasn’t here either.

He needed to find her, or at least know where she was. The early-summer day was exceedingly hot and humid, and he knew for a fact that his mother had not let her go out with her skin unprotected; she would be sweltering under all her clothes. Sam made his way towards her horse at the opposite end of the house, just within the shade of a maple tree.

There, beneath the tree and out of sight from the way he’d come, lay a mass of green calico skirts. She sprawled out across the ground, and for a moment, Sam was afraid she’d been thrown from her horse. He jumped down, running towards her before his horse had fully stopped, and shook her shoulder, gasping, “Miss Augusta!”

Her eyes squinted open, and she gazed bewilderedly up at him, blinking a few times as she registered his presence, before she slowly raised herself to her elbows, yawning, “Oh…stars. Sam.”

“You all right,” Sam asked, beginning to calm down. She didn’t look hurt in any way, and the only thing out of place was her hair on one side. He helped her sit up. She rubbed her eyes, though it did nothing to rid them of the disorient, then gazed around the yard.

“I just…I sat down here for just a moment. What time is it?”

“About four-o’clock. You’ve been our here about three hours.”

“Oh! Oh, good heavens,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet and scurrying to her horse. Sam hid a grin at the reddening of her neck. He offered his hand to help her into the saddle, and as they started back, she whispered, "Please don't tell anyone about this."

"My ma is going to realize something has happened once your arms and nose start freckling." When he turned back to look at her, she was beginning to set her jaw, readying her defenses, chin drawing into the air. The corners of Sam's mouth twitched, but he didn't smile in case he made her mad, and he didn't say anything either, just kicked his horse into action. His silence kept her silent, and she sighed as she kicked her horse into a faster pace to follow behind him.

Something akin to satisfaction warmed him; this was all he needed to make her calm down. He had caught her twice asleep in strange positions, once on the library desk and then again on the porch swing, though he hadn’t woken her either time. Now, though, she had been caught and been caught after a length of time. She wasn’t going to be able to deny her fatigue anymore, or play down the dark circles growing beneath her eyes. 

After an argument that should have been lengthier but showed just how exhausted she really was, he convinced her to nap for a few hours in his cabin, and within minutes her face had relaxed, sleep taking over. Sam sat down at the table and drew up a list while she slept.   
  
Even without promising to keep her safe, Sam wouldn't have dared to ever let anything happen to her, and the Evercreech sisters were a disaster. They had done nothing but complain and fight since their arrival, and like her childhood, Miss Augusta had endured it with a ducked head and bitten lip. Miss Anastasie nagged, Miss Oceane bullied, and Miss Salome did anything possible to rile them up. They only thought they'd escaped the Evercreech sisters.  
  
Sam wasn't going to let them bully Miss Augusta; at least, not if he could help it. She had always been lively around him, and once her sisters had gone, she'd been perpetually lively. He wasn't going to let her go back to the distant, listless girl she'd been growing up.  
  
On the other side of the table, Miss Augusta was sprawled across the bed, her hair now completely falling from her pins. The dark circles under once-bright eyes told just how much she needed this nap, and her rumbling stomach reminded Sam she had not eaten lunch and had probably skipped breakfast too. He stood to fix her a sandwich. At the smell of the ham frying in the skillet, she roused herself slowly, trying in vain to smooth her curls. "What's that for?"  
  
"You," Sam said, sliding the ham between two pieces of bread. She opened her mouth in protest, but Sam arched his eyebrow, successfully quieting her. "You'll be in a heap of trouble if you start having to have your dresses taken in. Remember how you’re already going to be soaking in buttermilk for the next week?"  
  
She frowned and called him a mother hen, but they both chuckled, and she took a seat across from him at the table without another word. When she'd made it through half the sandwich, Sam slid his sheet of paper across the table.   
  
"What's this," Miss Augusta asked, something close to dread washing her face of color as she read the first few words. She shook her head. "I don't understand."  
  
"This is your house, and you're wearing yourself too thin with all you've taken on. We don't know how long this is going to last. So they need to chip in," Sam explained.   
  
She laughed sharply. "Why, they won't do any more than a bit of mending, Sam."  
  
"And they've been dumping that on you too." In the evenings, when they sat down after dinner but before evening prayers, she always had a piece of clothing and needle in hand, and no single person, not even her son, could wear out clothing that quickly.   
  
"Sam, they won't—"  
  
"If they don't work, they don't eat. Everyone works around here. I work, you work, even old Mrs. Robicheaux does her part. You just tell them that if they don't work, they don't eat."  
  
She frowned at the list, almost pouting, and Sam could only imagine that her worst nightmares had come true. This would be waging her own war against her sisters, the complete opposite of how she'd always tried to stay out of their way. Very softly, as if she were hurt, she asked, "Can't I just fight the Yankees instead?"  
  
"You're not going into battle alone," Sam answered, just as quietly, and she raised her eyes slowly.

* * *

“ _There we are on top of the furniture, Sal on the table, me on a chair, Ana and Oceane on the sofa, all four of us armed with brooms and shrill voices, and the poor snake was just as frightened as we were. It darted past the table, and Sal swung so wildly that her broom flew out of her hand and hit Ana smack in the forehead, sending her straight to the floor, and wouldn’t you know it, but she took Oceane with her too. So there they are, scrambling around the floor and shrieking, and Sal is screaming at me to hit it, and I’m laughing so hard I can barely stand up, but I’m swinging away. Finally it seemed like the whole plantation showed up, probably thinking we were being murdered. Sam just stood in the doorway and stared at us for the longest time before he took Sal’s discarded broom and lifted the snake with its handle_.”

Letters from home are personal and a luxury, eagerly awaited and coveted, but Goodnight had taken to reading parts of his aloud. There were many men who did this, sharing bits of home with men who didn’t receive letters, but Goodnight’s are the ones who draw the crowd.

It started when Micah started telling the story about Anastasie and the rained-out church picnic, which had gotten many laughs, and then he’d moved onto Salome and the Mobile gentleman, which had gotten more laughs. But when he’d gone to Ocean and the hunting party, no one had believed him, for surely no family, not even one from New Orleans, could have a whole pack of girls this colorful. Ames had taken up the cross, insisting that Micah was right and that these were the famous Evercreech sisters. Of course, everyone knew of Ames’s love of a joke, and they had brushed them off, which was when Goodnight had told them he’d married the baby sister.

Thankfully—for the New Orleans gentlemen’s reputations as honest men, and for the camp’s amusement—it was just this time when the Evercreech sisters had taken roost with their baby sister. In came the letters from Augusta, sometimes pages and pages long, detailing the silly things she endured. His favorite so far had been Augusta’s mission to make them work and how they’d only lasted two days before they realized she was completely serious about them not eating if they didn’t work.

“You got out just in time, huh, Robicheaux,” a man from South Carolina asked, wiping at his eyes, and Ames and Micah exploded in laughter.

Goodnight shook his head, skimming the further contents to determine if they were shareable or private, but Augusta went into details about the children.

* * *

With his heart beating so fast, Goodnight feels like a rabbit, ready to drop dead at any moment. 

Sam and Billy go striding down the dusty street. Here are Stonewall and Lee going to meet McClellan. 

The plan had been Sam's idea, but Goodnight had added his flair to it, throwing in dramatics here and there—anything to keep his focus off the fact he was suddenly eighteen years in the past. April 1879 was turning into April 1861. He was preparing to march into battle with men he thought highly of, even after the short period of time, some he even loved. There was Sam, old and familiar, and there was  _Billy_. As Goodnight cocks a hip, impressing himself with how unruffled he looks, he tries to keep his mind off Billy, who looks utterly unworried. 

And then comes Faraday and Vasquez, simultaneously showing themselves with too much of a twinkle in their eye. They’re the young men, wild and reckless, with hot blood and no stakes. They’re the ones who march into battle eagerly and come out undisturbed; eventually even those men are worn down.

Goodnight's breath hitches. Swing the brigade around and loose them in the woods, emerge with surprise. There's Horne. Seven Days, heading to Sharpsburg. 

They keep marching on, getting themselves into position. Goodnight holds his breath and waits to hear the war cry, waits to raise his voice in that wretched yell and go shrieking like a banshee into battle, pushing his fear onto the enemy. But his throat is tight, and he tries to shudder a breath. Suppose he couldn't give his yell...

From Red on the roof, a man sinks to his knees and falls back into the dust. That's how they all fall; one hit and they crumple, straight to the ground. There's no flailing about. Just hit and down, shot and down. It's an image he's seen too many times before, one that's never left him. He tightens his grip on his rifle.  _1879, 1879,_ Goodnight repeats to himself, hoping it will become a mantra. Finally he looks to Billy because  _Billy_  is here. 

 _1879, 1879_ , he insists, keeping his eyes on Billy. This is different, he's never been here before. 

And then the first shot rings out, and suddenly he has been there before, he's been exactly in this spot before, watching his friends get shot, watching his friends shoot back for no goddamn good reason. 1879 falls from his thoughts as easy as butter sliding around a skillet, and it's 1861 again. 

_Goody! Goody, help me!_

Billy goes dashing away in his graceful movements, out of sight. Goodnightwants to chase after him because if he doesn't, he'll lose him in the smoke. He has to keep Billy safe; after everything Billy's done, Goodnight owes that much to him. Although it's not like this is the first time he's let someone down. 

Shoot, goddamn it, he tells himself. He needs to shoot. It's shoot or be shot, and after this long, he's not prepared for the latter. But it's shoot or be shot for Billy too, for Sam. He has to shoot, for them, but all he can do is twitch, jerk this way and that away from the cannons, the guns, the pleas.

_I can't feel my legs, Goody._

There's weight in his lap, and blood on his hands. There's blood on his coat, on his pants, there's blood on the ground, there's blood every-damn-where. There's a weight on his lap that's too heavy for him to handle. 

_Goodnight._

There's smoke all around and a dull pain in his shoulder, and all he can hear is the sound of cannons, men crying out for each other or people who are hundreds of miles away. They're crying his name, in hatred and panic. His fingers twitch but don't pull the trigger. It's been so long since he's pulled the trigger in violence, and he has no desire for the consequences that come with it. Ashes, that's how this will end.

Goodnight thinks vaguely that someone is yelling for him to take the shot. He's aiming down the barrel of his gun at a perfectly lined-up shot, and it's a shot he could never think to miss. And then one of his nightmares has come to life. There's a man riding away, but all Goodnight can see is himself thundering down a road that's too long,  _I'm coming, I'm coming_ beating a cadence with the pounding of hooves. He can see the smoke rising in the distance, growing bigger and bigger, but why isn't he there yet? He can hear them calling for him, their voices so much different than those he's grown used to. He's so close and should be there by now, but they're slowly fading from him. 

Goodnight lowers his rifle, knowing how that story ends. He would sell his soul for them to just keep crying out for him. 

When he glances up, he wonders how long Faraday has been standing over his shoulder, and then his stomach churns. So he's been outed. He had done worse than he expected he would, which isn't saying much. 

Billy jerks the rifle from his hands. A beat, and as graceful a lie as one of Augusta's stories, he says, "It's jammed."

There's something jammed, all right, but it isn't the rifle. 

* * *

“Goody,” Micah whispered at some point in the night, distracting Goodnight from the owl’s incessant hooting somewhere in the trees above, and Goodnight was thankful Micah had spoken because he had half a mind to shoot the thing. Grunting in response, Goodnight rolled onto his back and turned his head to face his friend. Micah wasn’t looking at him but up ahead at the cover of the leaves. Perhaps he had half a mind to shoot the owl too. “Goody, I don’t feel right about tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve got a real bad feeling about it. In the pit of my stomach. Something just ain’t right.” Of course it wasn’t right. What could Micah possibly expect when they were sleeping on the ground a thousand miles from home, when they would wake up in the morning to fire at nameless Billy Yanks who they’d never even met? Goodnight wanted to snap at him, but he couldn’t find it in him. When he didn’t say anything, Micah continued, “You think I’m foolish.”

“No,” Goodnight disagreed with a painful ache, “no, I think all of this is foolish.”

Micah was silent, and Goodnight didn’t know if he’d fallen asleep or decided to let the subject drop; since he’d been one of the most vocal supporters of secession and then war, Goodnight assumed it was because he didn’t want to pick a fight, which made it more surprising when he said, so quietly that Goodnight almost missed it: “Me too.”

“What do you think they’re doing now? At home, I mean,” came Ames’s voice from Goodnight’s other side. Ames had spent most of the evening with his little tin. He was too thin now to be the Ames he’d grown up with, too thin and serious, and Goodnight can’t help the guilt that comes from seeing his friend like that. Part of him almost wished Ames would get hit in the foot, maybe the hand, somewhere he’d be safe but hurt enough to go home; he didn’t belong here.

Goodnight swallowed hard and tried to estimate the time. “I’d say Augusta’s put the children to bed, and Ginny is bound to be out by now—she’d sleep through Doomsday. And now she’s probably sitting in the cabin with her mammy and Sam, having tea.

“I used to think I wanted to go home, but now, with her sisters there...I’m not so sure,” Goodnight muttered, and beside him, his friends laughed.

“You don’t mean that. You’d sell your soul to the Devil if it meant you could go home.” Micah was quiet for a long while. “I want to see Minnie. And the twins, and my mama, and my sisters, and—hell, I’d even like to see Josiah Miller at this point!”

They chuckled quietly before Micah continued, “I want some beignets, and dear God, do I want some gumbo. Or anything that isn’t dog biscuits and mud.”

“I want Mattie,” Ames said simply. Goodnight turned his head to look at Ames, who was staring up into the trees where the owl was; there was something more pensive and emotional than Goodnight had ever seen in his features. “We wanted a little brood, but it was just us and that was perfectly fine. We were happy. I want to go home to Mattie.”

“You were the only one of us who was right about this whole thing, Goody. You thought war was a bad idea, you were just too noble to say so,” Micah said when the silence after Ames got too thick.

“That wasn’t noble of me at all, Micah.”

Micah grunted, then said, “Well, at least...we’ve become friends. Or better friends. Not sure what you would have called us before. So something good has come out of all of this.”

“You're embarrassing us, Mr. Magee,” Goodnight teased, and in the dark, he could just make out Micah’s grin. “I never took you for an optimist.”

“Well, I reckon we have to be. Otherwise we'd lose our minds out here.” Micah shook his head and returned to being somber. “I just have a terrible feeling about this.”

“Go to sleep, Micah,” Ames grunted, suddenly over the conversation, and Goodnight grinned. Ames took his sleep very seriously. At least that hadn't changed.

But Goodnight too wished he'd shut up. He didn't want to say he needed the sleep more than Micah or Ames, but he'd rather be well-rested when no one had his back in the morning, and he already had enough nerves of his own without shouldering Micah’s and Ames’s; he couldn't very well say anything, though, not when his Southern upbringing was anything but polite.

Overhead, that damn owl hooted again.

Perhaps Micah read his mind, for he sighed and said, “Well, I guess we do need to try to sleep. Or as much as we can with that God forsaken bird. ‘Night, Goody, Ames.”

“‘Night.”

* * *

Leaning his head back against the rock providing his cover, Goodnight took a deep breath to steel his nerves, and when that didn't work, he took another one, again to no avail. In his hands, he clutched tightly the issued Whitworth rifle, loaded and ready to go, while the sounds of shots in the cornfield echoed through the trees. Below him, the rest of the troops formed their ranks where they would die or survive close to their comrades and friends while he was stuck behind this rock. Micah and Ames were somewhere below him, somewhere near their other friends, and his fellow sharpshooters were who knew where, ducked behind rocks or trees or whatever other cover they could hide behind. But for all he knew, he was up here alone, and Micah and Ames were down below, and if he died, Goodnight might not know until it was too late.

All he had to do was fire the one shot in his rifle and the war would go to Hell for him. War for the other men would go to Hell when the Union found reinforcements or forced the South into a dangerous position, but for him, war went to Hell when he took the first shot. He was stuck behind the rock all by himself, and when he pulled the trigger, the smoke would tell exactly where he was, and he would have no one to help him and no way to get out of there.

With his eyes closed, he tried to steady his breathing, thinking about the night before when he'd sat around the fire with Micah and Ames and a few of the other men, swapping childhood stories, telling about their wives. Micah had only been married two months when fighting broke out, but he still talked about Minerva with the same look of adoration that Goodnight felt whenever he mentioned Augusta. He thought about her, about jolly little Beau, and Friday’s child Ginny.

And then he peeked around the rock.

He could just make out several captains in the distance, but the color bearers were painfully obvious. At the front of the lines, a general he thought was Rodman sat tall atop his horse. He could easily hit Rodman, could do that with his eyes closed, but the color bearers—they were much further and incredibly important.

The men on the ground didn't have orders yet to shoot.

He raised his gun, but before he could pull the trigger, an explosion far to his left knocked a captain from his horse, launching both armies into battle. High-pitched and warbling, sending shivers down his back even though he had done the same on more than one occasion, his men let loose the wild rebel yell, reminding him for all the world like a pack of screaming vixens. Mixing with the screams, smoke covered the woods, clouding his sights before he could get in a shot. He cursed under his breath and craned his neck in search of a clearing.

Through the smoke, he could just make out the red and white stripes of his old flag in the hands of a man in blue, but Rodman was nowhere to be seen. Scatter the troops at the start and wait for another stupid soul to take up the plight, or find the general?

Spreading his next round on the ground next to him, making it easily accessible, he located Rodman to his right. If he played his cards right, he could make two shots in as many minutes, so long as no one took aim at him.

He waited for the next cannon to obscure him from Yankee sight and pulled the trigger.

* * *

After his bath, Billy comes downstairs to find Goodnight alone in the saloon, no sign of the other men. He's abandoned the glass and is drinking straight from the bottle, and Billy wonders if it's his first. He decides it can’t be, not after the way target practice had gone. Billy had been miffed about his knife lessons until he saw Goodnight stalking towards town with his hands covering his face, his pace quicker than his usual languid strides. After that, they’d taken most of the afternoon off, and Billy had spent his time coaxing Goodnight out of whatever hell he’d disappeared into; it must not have been enough.

Upon hearing his steps, Goodnight glances up, and while he’s undoubtedly drunk, his eyes are somehow frighteningly clear. In a hoarse voice, he whispers, “Twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three,” Billy repeats with a sinking feeling, knowing where this is headed. He pushes back his wet hair and takes a seat next Goodnight, casually pulling the bottle away.

“It could have been higher than that. I just…I had to take care of him.”

Goodnight looks at Billy, silently begging him to ask, _why could it have been higher, who did you have to take care of._ He's begging Billy to make him confess, but Billy knows Goodnight’s confessions always make him feel worse. Even though he doesn't want to, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“Give me that back,” Goodnight says instead, reaching for the bottle, which Billy nudges just out of reach.

“You don't need it. What do you mean, Goody?”

Goodnight stares after the bottle forlornly, perfectly aware Billy can move it faster than he can grab it, and also perfectly aware that Billy has no qualms about breaking it, but he still seems to be debating a grab. He doesn't, but rather pulls his arms in towards him, shoulders slumping.

“Ames.”

* * *

After First Manassas, Goodnight had sworn he wouldn’t tell Augusta what really happened during battle—not that she likely didn’t know already, if Yankees were really in Louisiana.

Now, with the night finally slipping away, he sat with two packs on the ground in front of him, his shoulder drawn and one tightly bandaged. Even though hours had passed since the fighting ended, his hands still trembled as he clutched his prayer beads, remembering Ames’s voice suggesting they use them, but he couldn’t find the strength to do anything besides hold them in his hand. He could hear Ames’s voice whispering prayers as clearly as if he were next to him, and though he longed to rise to his knees and bow his head like they had done after every fight, thanking whatever might be listening for letting them see another day…he couldn’t make himself move. Maybe it was because he wasn’t exactly thankful to see another day, not after how this one had ended.

All he wanted to do was put his head in Augusta’s lap and let her work her magic, her fingers combing gently through his hair and across his temple, over his cheek, while he listened to her softly murmur sweet nothings and reassurances in that quiet, calming voice; he wanted to feel her arms around him and breathe in her scent of sugar and sweet perfume he’d bought her.

He wanted to be home—home, where there was Augusta and Beau and Ginny, his mother, Ames and Mathilde; home, where the sprawling green fields gave way to a big white house or a little creek with a willow tree, depending which way one went; home, where he could listen to the swishing of skirts and bells of childish laughter. Home, where he could lie down at night and bury his face in a mess of black curls.

But he couldn’t do that, and he would never do that, not after today. Home would always be missing something.

After First Manassas, Goodnight had sworn he wouldn’t relate the details of battle to Augusta, but she’d always been there to listen to whatever had been on his mind, and he had to get this off it. He takes out a sheet of paper; maybe his handwriting will be so poor she won’t be able to read it.

_18 September 1862  
Ma vie,_

_I am back in Virginia at the time that I write this. It is the morning after._

_Our unit drew into Sharpsburg in hope that we could bring Maryland in. Augusta, it was terrible. All down the road, bodies from both sides lined the lane, stacked on top of each other, five deep in some places, bodies up to your knees. It seemed as though there was a third party involved, some coats were soaked so red. Everywhere you turned men were dropping, it was all that you saw through the smoke: men dropping as their coats turned red._

_Twenty-three confirmed kills. That’s what I had, and that’s what I will live with. I came away from the battle with my hands dripping with blood. It wasn't mine, I wasn’t given that luxury._ _I suspect you'll get this after the rosters come out. You'll have seen them and know whose blood it was._

_Augusta, ma vie, if I live another hundred years, I will never forget this. I laid in bed last night desperate for your voice and touch, to be able to sit with you beneath the willow where we began, but I am glad you are far away and not part of this, and I hope it stays that way. Now more than ever I wish I was home. Yesterday, I’m afraid sapped me of all strength in our cause. I think about meeting you at a train station somewhere, and we could both run. Perhaps out West, where they are still free. We could begin again there._

_Know this, Augusta. I love you more by the day, and I will be coming home._

_Madly,_

_Goody_

* * *

Not even her last name could have gotten Augusta through the crowd, but Mathilde pushed anyone and everyone aside with such a determined force that she reminded Augusta of their childhood. As Augusta watched from the carriage window, her friend disappeared into the masses and came snarling out, holding a paper high over her head, out of reach from any thief.

News from the East had trickled slowly to New Orleans, and the more that had come in, the more citizens didn't want to hear. Once they had cheered, their darling Lee was pushing forward, and he'd have those Yankees high-tailing it out of there faster than anyone could say ‘licked.’ Their darling Lee would have them surrendering the moment their boys set foot on Yankee soil. But then they'd heard the whispers of how the battle had gone, a battle that lasted only a single day, heard rumors of the losses, and a dread had settled over the South. They'd pushed onto Yankee soil, but at what cost?

Augusta’s hands trembled as she opened the carriage door for Mathilde, knowing good and well that the Louisiana troops had been in Sharpsburg. She reminded herself over and over that Goodnight was a crack shot and five times smarter than most of the men fighting, and after nearly a year and a half, she thought that it would get easier for her to read the rosters, but still her hands quaked and no matter how loosely Mammy laced her, she thought she would faint. 

“You have to read it,” she told Mathilde, surprised at her voice.

“But Augusta, I went to get it,” Mathilde whined, all traces of fire gone from her face, replaced with the same fear Augusta felt. Augusta closed her eyes. It wasn't fair for Mathilde to do all the work, not when she had just as much riding on those words as Augusta.

“Do you want me to start heading on home,” Sam asked on the other side of the window, and Augusta met his steady, dark eyes. Sam didn't have quite the same things riding on the list of names. It was a terrible thing to ask of him, but it didn't stop her.

“Sam, can you…can you read it?”

Sam must have seen the pleading in her eyes, for he said, “Here or at home?”

“Here,” Mathilde gushed, breathless, tugging at her net and pulling half her hair down. “I can't wait that long.”

“Neither can I,” Augusta agreed, “just do it here, Sam.”

Sam nodded once and reached for the roster. Anastasie’s husband hadn't made the list. He passed up Sacha Castex, thank goodness for Valentine. The Jarreau boys were safe, as were Micah Magee and all four Miller boys. Augusta and Mathilde relaxed their grip on one another at hearing their childhood beaux had made it out unscathed—or unscathed so far. But they still hadn't reached the Rs. Sam kept going, passing Patterson, skipping where Oceane’s husband should be.

_Rigby, Roberts, Robertson, Robillard—_

For a brief moment, Augusta collapsed onto Mathilde’s shoulder, her dissipating tension leaving her weak, but she got a hold of herself. Sometimes she liked having her name ahead of Mathilde’s alphabetically, being the one to get it over with first. She gathered Mathilde in her arms as Sam continued.

_Rollins, Romanov, Rooks, Roy, Rub—_

Sam halted mid-name, eyes quickly darting back and forth over a single line. Mathilde froze in her grip, and her heart pounding, Augusta tightened her hold, a prayer forming in her mind. She couldn't remember any of the proper ones, and all she could think was, _Please, God, no. Please, please not him. Please not him, please not him._

Finally Sam licked his lips and said quietly, “Rubadeau, Ames, corporal. Killed in battle.”

* * *

“I had the perfect spot. I could see everything, the Yankees, my men, I had cover, I was unloading and reloading without missing a shot. I'd been watching my friends. And I looked through the smoke, I watched the bullet hit him right in the stomach. He just—he just dropped right there, grabbed his stomach and fell to his knees. I remember.

“I remember scrambling down to him, screaming all the way, the Yankees hailed me with all kinds of fire when I came into sight. That's how I got this.” Goodnight taps his chest, where the single round scar stands above his heart. “I didn't even realize it until they were trying to patch me up after it was over.

“He'd crawled behind a tree. Wasn't a drop of color in his face. I took hold of his arms and tried to pull him up, get him out, but he said, ‘No, Goody, just let me lay here a moment, I'm good at that.’ I kept trying and trying, but he wouldn't move, kept repeating for me to let him lay there. Then, finally, he says, ‘Goody, I can't feel my legs.’”

And then Goodnight’s shoulders begin to shake, and he leans over the table, holding his head tight between his hands. He squeezes, fingers wrapping in his hair so tightly that Billy knows he must be pulling it out. “So for the rest of the battle, I sat there behind that tree with his head in my lap and one hand trying to stop the bleeding. He said, ‘We may not be able to have children, but I reckon Mattie’s going to be mighty disappointed if I can't feel my legs.’ He just kept rambling about her, asking me to watch after her, that she was a silly woman but a good one all the same. He told me he wanted Aurore to go to Ginny and her husband when she married. I couldn't make it stop, couldn't make it stop bleeding, make him stop talking.”

Goodnight looks at him with so much pain and such an expression that Billy knows Goodnight isn’t seeing him, Billy, but someone from long ago. Billy had almost thought Goodnight was pushing that part away, finally, until Faraday found them.

Coming here had been a mistake, and one where Billy now knows how it will play out. Goodnight hadn’t been able to shoot, even for a lesson. Their cigarettes aren’t working as well as usual. Goodnight can’t even look at him and see him for who he is. Billy knows how this is going to end. Maybe Goodnight has stepped into his worst nightmare, but so has Billy.

* * *

“Mammy,” Augusta called, not quite as patiently as usual. She guided Mathilde towards the stairs, the arm around Mathilde's waist doing more carrying than comfort. “Mammy, I need you!"

In an instant, Mammy came scurrying from the kitchen, breathless and fearful, and Beau, having been away from his mother for what he probably considered too long, bounced along behind her. His jollity disappeared upon seeing Mathilde in tears, and he trotted to her instead of Augusta, saying, “Don't cry, Aunt Mattie, don't cry.”

But Mathilde only sobbed harder and swept him up, and Beau threw his arms around her neck. Tears of his own rolled down his cheeks, but he kept saying, “Don't cry, Aunt Mattie. Don't cry, I love you.”

 _Oh, you sweet, troublesome thing,_ Augusta thought as Beau kept doing more harm than good and making himself cry. She urged Mathilde up the stairs. “Mammy, I need you to pack my trunk for three weeks, and hold my black taffeta for Mathilde. We don't have time to get her one. The train leaves at seven o’clock.”

* * *

It took nearly a week for them to rumble all the way to Richmond, whereas before the war, it would have only taken a couple of days. The whole way, Mathilde had sniffled and cried, and Augusta had a crick in her neck from where she’d kept her head on Mathilde’s shoulder. They’d gone straight to the war office the moment they’d gotten off the train, and now they stood in front of a young private who was absolutely incompetent.

Augusta stared blankly at the man in front of her, hearing Mathilde launch into a fresh round of tears. It was a wonder she hadn't shriveled up in the past two weeks, the amount of crying she did. And here was this man, this little peon private, telling her he couldn't help her, that they had come all this way, from New Orleans to Richmond, for nothing.

Ames was dead, and he was stuck in Richmond. Ames who Goodnight had grown up with, who they owed their marriage to, who had been his best man; Ames who was his brother. Her poor husband had walked away from battle without his brother.

Something inside her snapped.

“Sir, my name is Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux, wife of Sergeant Goodnight Robicheaux, and this is my friend, Mrs. Ames Rubadeau. I'll be _damned_ if we have come all the way from New Orleans for you to tell us to go home. Now I sent a telegram to the office a week ago saying we were coming for Corporal Ames Rubadeau, and I _demand_ you take us to someone who will help us,” Augusta shouted, voice rising in volume as she went on. She could feel the blood burning in her neck and ears, but she set her lips in determination.

As the blood rose to her face, it drained from the man’s. He was young and had likely never known the fear that a truly angry woman could instill, and Augusta was beyond angry. She would spend the rest of her life in Richmond before she ever let Ames’s body stay there, not when he belonged at the sunny Aurore he loved. When he didn't move, she scowled more deeply. “Sir, it's bad manners to keep a lady waiting.”

“Augusta,” Mathilde whispered as the private ducked hurriedly into the offices. She coughed, meeting Augusta's blazing eyes, before the cough turned into a laugh. “So you are an Evercreech after all.”

“We should have brought Salome. That really would have scared him,” Augusta replied, a smile breaking through her fury. It was so good to see Mathilde laughing again. 

* * *

When his commanding officer had broken the news to him, Goodnight had gone sprinting through Richmond, heedless of the gawks and whispers that followed him.  _Wasn't that Goodnight Robicheaux?_  they were probably asking, wondering what could have possibly made him tear through town like a madman. 

He’d been brought up to be poised and debonair, cool almost to the point of carelessness. Men like him weren’t supposed to run when they had horses or people to do that for them; men like him were supposed to stride, saunter as unhurriedly as possible. But women could make men do the strangest things.

Panting, his heart fluttering, he tossed back the door to the hotel where he'd been directed. Like a compass needle points north, his eyes immediately fell on his little wife, whose face lit up as she shot to her feet, dimples popping into her cheeks with her big smile. He couldn't have opened the Gates of Heaven to have found a more wonderful sight. The pins in his lungs told him this wasn’t a dream and that she really was there in front of him.

"Goody," she said at the same moment he sighed, "Gus."

She felt exactly like he remembered as his arms fell into place around her bell-waist, holding her tightly against him. The perfume he's bought lingered in her hair, and he pressed his face into it, where there were curls inevitably escaping her net; it was like breathing in New Orleans and Foxsong, the wide green fields, the bustling streets, the tickle of willow leaves in the breeze. Goodnight pulled her body closer but leaned his head back just enough to kiss her in the middle of the lobby, which would have turned heads in New Orleans but stopped hearts in Richmond.

A timid "a-hem" broke his moment, and for the first time he noticed Augusta’s companion.

Over the past week, Goodnight had looked at Mathilde’s face almost as much as he’d looked at Augusta’s. He and Ames had kept in their breast pockets matching tins containing a few precious photographs from home, and when Goodnight had searched Ames’s person for any valuables, he’d found the little tin with Mathilde’s picture on top, worn at a single edge where Ames had always held it. Fair-haired, wild-eyed Mathilde Verret, who could not be calmed even when she took the name Rubadeau.

But fair-haired, wild-eyed Mathilde Rubaeau was beyond calm now. Her eyes, red and swollen, had been tamed at last, and there was no hint of laughter on her lips, no hint of the whirlwind that moved her and excited the air around her. Augusta’s black taffeta and the grief that caused it did not suit Mathilde, just as the Zouave had not suited Ames.

“Goody,” Mathilde whispered hesitantly, looking as though she was ready for him to lash out.

“Mattie,” he returned just as hesitantly, sure she would be the one to lash out. After all, it was his fault Ames was gone.

Instead, she offered a smile, one that almost reminded him of Mathilde and, moving toward him, said, “I’m so glad to see you.”

When she kissed his cheek and held him at arm’s length, Goodnight knew the sentiment was genuine, and he kissed her back. This was not nearly as bad as he’d expected it would be. The action seemed to revive her, and he pulled back to find an honest Mathilde smile. Her eyes almost danced as she glanced between Augusta and him. “Well. I’m off to do a bit of exploring around here. I’ll see you about supper time, Augusta.”

Mathilde handed Augusta the key to the room they must have booked. Goodnight, in unison with Mathilde, laughed fondly at the way his wife’s neck reddened at the implication, but she took his hand and led him down the hall, not bothering to ask if he had the time to spare.

His commanding officer had given him leave until the morning, and the only thing for which he didn’t have time to spare was anything except Augusta, his wife who was here, in Richmond, with him for the entire evening. He was worse than a boy, all giddy at the thought he had claimed a belle’s attention.

But Goodnight had no sooner closed the door behind him than he felt himself crumbling, safe behind closed doors where there was only Augusta.

Augusta understood. He watched her shoulders square and chin raise as she readied herself to bear his burdens. She held out her hand, and he went to her like a magnet, sinking into her soft touch. As she sat on the bed, she gathered him to her, and he wadded her skirt in his fists, pressing them to his face. This was the dress he'd bought on a whim, deciding the deep red would look exquisite with her eyes, and he'd bought a red cravat and tan suit to match her because he liked the way they turned heads when they went out looking so smart; he'd bought this in October two years ago, back when things had still been right in the world. 

And then his shoulders began to shake as he finally acknowledged the pain. It was one thing to watch men he'd just met die, but it was another thing altogether when it was the man who'd been as good as his brother, the man with whom, as a boy, he'd rode all over the parish, making a ruckus and getting into trouble; the man with whom he'd shared his first shooting lesson. They'd stood together in the corner the night of their first ball and tried to work each other up to ask a girl to dance. They'd stood by each other on their wedding days. His children called him Uncle Ames. 

He could still feel the wait of Ames on his lap, his head against his chest. His fingers felt warm where the blood poured over them, and he wadded his hands in Augusta’s fabric even more, trying to rid himself of the feeling. He had watched Ames’s face fill with pain and wash of color.

"He's not coming back, Augusta," Goodnight sobbed into her skirt. 

"I know," Augusta said, her voice tight as though she was holding back a sob of her own, but her hand rubbed up and down his back. "I know, sweetheart. But we're taking him home."

They sat there in silence broken only by Goodnight's sobs and Augusta's indistinguishable murmurs, her gentle hands rubbing his back, fingers playing in his hair, just as he had known she would do, but it was what he needed. He felt foolish, partially, for breaking down like this over Ames when he'd been so restrained with the death of his own father, but he told himself it was different; his father had died in his home surrounded by his family, still as much himself as was possible with illness, and Ames, in a battlefield staunchly unlike Aurore, had gone as a shadow of his former bubbly self, thinned and serious, trying so hard to joke like usual. Ames was no more a soldier than he was a scholar.

When he eventually cried himself out, he noted that her skirt was soaked and covered in snot, and he had no desire to face her like this, crumbled and messy. What kind of man was he to push his burdens on his wife, to bare himself to such humiliation?

Her fingers curled under his chin and tilted it so that he raised up to meet her gaze. To his surprise, her eyes and cheeks were wet, though he hadn’t heard a peep to suggest she’d been crying. She wiped under his eyes with her handkerchief, letting him act like the child he felt he was.

“He’s going home,” she repeated, but Goodnight was so distracted by her wet cheeks that he forgot his own shame in crying. He reached out his hand and dried her face, the realization hitting him that he needed to dry her tears as much as he needed her to dry his.

For the rest of the evening, they lay curled together, marveling at the sounds of each other’s voices, relearning every wandering curve and plane of their bodies. He didn’t tell her about Ames, and she didn’t ask, but they recalled a few memories and laughed with more tears in their eyes. When Mathilde came back, they went to dinner, and somehow things almost felt all right. But he supposed they had to feel that way if they were all together, for nothing else mattered. 

* * *

_12 October 1862_

_Goody,_

_Today I walked with the children down to the creek so that Beau could see the Jesus bugs—he would watch those things the whole day if I let him. I sat under the willow watching them, missing you and feeling your presence there. I still remember the day you came whistling down with your fishing pole, the startled look on your face when you saw me. Your ears grew red, did you know that? Red like my neck does. I remember trying to still my girlish heart when you asked for a dance at the next ball and nearly fainting when you kissed my hand. How my stomach fluttered every time I hopped across the stones to join you, just as Ginny was hopping across them at the moment._

_Those times seem so far away. I was in the middle of reminiscing when there was a cry and a crash, and I rejoined reality to find Ginny in the middle of the creek and Beau awfully close to her. He laughed and laughed until he caught my eye, and all the while, Ginny gave him such an impressive frown, sopping wet with water running all down her face. Beau swore up and down he didn't push her, but we went home anyway._

_Another week goes by, and still we are tormented by my sisters. It is lonely, and dreadfully loud for all the wrong reasons. Your mother and I have taken to visiting with Mammy and her family in the evenings after the children have gone to bed, if only to take comfort in each other’s quiet presence. How exactly we ended up there, I have no idea, but somehow we did._

_Having placed the pot of tea on the table, Mammy took off her apron that first evening and heaved herself into the chair, saying, “Lord, baby, I thought I was done with those three.” Sam laughed before he could help himself, but when your mother and I joined in, he didn’t seem so sheepish anymore. I’m grateful for Mammy and Sam, and Ruth too, and I would miss them terribly, but I wish now that they had left when we’d asked them. It doesn't seem fair to let them, nor to your wonderful mother, be tormented by my sisters, who seem bent on being perpetual pains._

_On a lighter note, I am beginning to find another ally in Salome. You know that if I was ever close to one of my sisters, it was with her, but something in her is not quite the same since we came back home. “Bitch” still rolls off the tongue flawlessly, and while she frowns the entire time, she's less hateful about doing her own chores, and sometimes she’ll accompany me during my routine. Some days she's her usual taciturn self, but other days—she's downright chatty. She still scares all the slaves when we go to the village. I enjoy her company until we get there, and then I’d wish she’d leave so that we could have fun._

_Ana’s son Thèodore talks about you constantly since we came home from Richmond. I don't think a day goes by where he hasn't come up to ask me some question about you. “Does Uncle Goody like Charles Dickens? Which one is his favorite? Look, Aunt Augusta, Uncle Goody was in the newspaper last Friday, come look! Have you heard what Uncle Goody did in Virginia, Aunt Augusta?” Ana and Oceane both lit into him at breakfast the other day —Wednesday, I think—about how he goes on and on about you but doesn't think twice of his own father. He moped about for half the morning until I took him for a walk to the creek, saying you and I used to do it all the time. Poor boy, he just wants a hero like in the stories. I don’t know what you did that Christmas, but he absolutely adores you._

_As for our own beautiful children, Beau is beginning to learn to read, quite early I might add, so it appears that all those hours we spent are paying off. Oh, I wish you could see him, Goody, our little gentleman, sitting there with his sister and trying his best to read to her. In the midst of all this chaos and heartache, it's so warming to know that there's some good left in the world. And Ginny is constantly begging me to play the piano for her. After listening to Valentine, though, I feel so inadequate. It’s been years since I played, and the first time I tried, I stumbled so badly and felt my neck heat, which only made me stumble more. I’ve tried to practice when there’s no one in the house, but those times are few and far between. And my voice has never been anything without yours; I imagine your sister would have taken to our quiet little girl much better than she did with Beau. Maybe she’ll come for a visit soon—I’ll write her next._

_I grieve for you, sweetheart. I cannot imagine the horrors that you have faced and what you are going through, these trials that no man should endure. But remember my words that last night: you are talented, and you are smart, and you are much stronger than you think. This war has gone on for much too long. Your duty with the Confederacy has long passed; your duty now lies completely with your well being, that you may come back to Foxsong. I miss gazing out the window and seeing you atop your horse in the field, I miss the way you fit perfectly against me. Oh sweetheart, I miss you so terribly._

_Come home._

_Eternally,_

_Your Gus_

* * *

_31 October 1862_

_Gus,_

_It's been quiet since we left Sharpsburg, quiet and haunted. Micah hasn’t taken Ames’s passing well, and either he sticks to my side or goes God knows where. Liquor is getting harder to come by these days, and he’s completely sober when he returns, so I’ve no idea what he’s up to. Sometimes he speaks and sometimes he doesn’t, seeming to like having my voice fill the silence. I can’t tell you half the things I’ve said in the past few weeks; I know my jokes aren’t half as funny as his, though. At times, I’ve found him looking at me as though he hasn’t known I’ve been here with him the entire time, as though he’s wondering just who I am and when I arrived._

_I’ve considered withholding this from you as a surprise; however, I haven’t been very uplifting recently, and I feel as though I owe you good news of some sort. My only relief these past few days is this: I’ve been granted furlough for December. I expect you at the depot with more pomp and circumstance than New Orleans has ever seen, and if all goes as planned, we should have two weeks together until I come back._

_Sometimes, ma vie, I wish I hadn’t seen you when you came to get him. The ache the night you left was nearly unbearable, and I missed you by my side more than ever. The irony: I find myself jabbering and jabbering to fill the silence and keep my mind occupied, and though I long to speak with you, I find myself staring at this paper, at a loss for words. Somehow you have always been the easiest person and the hardest with whom to speak. But I’m coming back to you, Gus. We’ll be together like we were mean to be._

_Devotedly,_

_Goody_


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super behind my schedule. After finals, life got crazy, but...
> 
> I plan on getting the final chapter out from the one and only, New Orleans. I'm coincidentally taking a trip there next week (not because of this story though), and I can't wait. The houses I used for Aurore's and Foxsong's inspiration are less than an hour and a half from my hotel, and of course, there's Miss Robicheaux's from American Horror Story. 
> 
> Augusta: Christmas 1862-June 1863  
> Billy: Canon-era 1879. I imagine it's late spring.

“Good morning, Mrs. Robicheaux,” said the third Yankee soldier Augusta had passed since getting out of the carriage. She tipped her head politely, grinning to herself at his stiff bow, and murmured a thank you when he held open the door to the depot. Yankee manners paled in comparison to her Southern gentlemen, but they tried to act courteous, and Augusta assumed that was what mattered.

Under normal circumstances, out of the graciousness that was bred into all Southern ladies, Augusta would have stopped to chat with the soldiers for a moment, asking if they'd heard any news from their families or how an arm was healing, but today she was too nervous, too excited. Today the train would come in, and she had to be the first thing he saw. Her stomach swirled, and she wanted to skip girlishly through the depot—but that would not be fitting to the Robicheaux name.

Beside her, Beau clutched her gloved hand with his own and trotted calmly beside her, having been gently lectured that he couldn't run off today. His hands were covered in the only pair of gloves that had yet to disappear, and she sincerely hoped he didn't lose these too—Yankees were almost courteous, but it was getting harder and harder to come by basic luxuries since the last blockade runner she'd known had been captured. Sam kept close on her other side, Ginny holding on tightly to his coat. They moved through the station slowly, a full train having arrived just recently, until they made it to the platform where their train would be arriving.  

“Come have a seat next to me, baby,” Augusta said when they found an empty bench, and Beau did as he was told, swinging his feet while he waited quietly next to her.

She hadn't told anyone that Goodnight was coming home, and almost equal to her excitement of seeing her husband was her excitement of their children's reactions to him coming home. She knew Mrs. Robicheaux would be thrilled, since Goodnight was one of her only topics of conversation, besides her own father, the Mexican War hero. She'd been entirely too withdrawn since the trip to Richmond, less willing to help with the chores she'd always done, leaving Augusta with Sam and Mammy earlier in the evenings. Maybe, Augusta thought, it would do her mother-in-law some good to see Goodnight.

"Are you going away again, Mama," Beau asked eventually, a worried frown playing on his mouth. Augusta smiled warmly at her son, who was trying so very hard to be quiet and patient like she'd asked. He was like Goodnight in the respect that he would make friends with anyone, and she knew he was bursting at the seams to meet all the new people passing through.

"No, honey," she answered calmly. "I told you this was a surprise."

"I don't like surprises," Beau said forlornly, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. Augusta hummed, trying in vain to smooth his unruly honey curls, and he leaned affectionately into her touch. His unhappiness didn't last long, as it rarely did, and he tugged her on her skirt, pointing. "Mama, that lady has beignets. May I get some?"

"Don't point, Beau, it's rude." He muttered a ‘yes ma'am’ and put down his hand, keeping his eyes upturned. They were Goodnight's eyes, and when they were looking at her, she wanted to give him everything in the world. With a kiss to his head, she handed Sam the wallet, saying, “Be quick, honey, and don't get too far from Sam."

“Yes ma’am,” he chipped, holding up his hand to take Sam’s.

While they disappeared into the crowd, Augusta bounced Ginny on her lap, hoping her daughter couldn’t feel her nerves; if she could, she gave no indication but continued to play with the buttons on Augusta’s dress. Kissing her little fingers, Augusta pried Ginny's hand away before she popped open her basque and exposed herself to the train station.

 _Soon_ , she told herself. The train would arrive soon.

* * *

Goodnight didn’t let the train stop before he’d leaped onto the platform, eyes scanning the passersby. They weren’t like he remembered, decadently dressed in whatever they wished, instead rather worn, most of the women in calicoes, men in darned uniforms, but they walked with that same sway. The depot was rowdy and laughing, and mingling with the smoke from the train was cayenne and oregano, and shouts in Spanish, French, and English. This was New Orleans, and somewhere amid these people and sounds and smells was his family.

He brushed through the crowd, craning his neck in search of his party, unsure if they would be there to meet him. It didn’t matter if they were or not, though; he was so close to Foxsong, and in the past year and a half, he’d done so much walking that a little more wouldn’t hurt. A group pushed him back, but when they parted, Goodnight could just make out a black-haired woman holding a black-haired girl.

“Gus—Augusta!” he called, and her eyes searched frantically for the source of the sound, a breathless grin spreading light over her face. Ginny, grinning with her mother, said something to her that he couldn’t understand, and Augusta bounced her on her hip. He pushed someone out of his way with only half a thought of how ungentlemanly the action was. “Gus!”

Finally Augusta caught sight of him and scurried through the crowd, her grin turning into that big, dimpled smile that could have only been crafted by Venus herself. Goodnight caught her mid-stride and swung her around, his lips meeting hers with a practiced ease. If anyone had asked him seven years ago how he would be greeted getting off a train, he would have said anything but this, but now he couldn’t imagine anything less.

“Don’t be vulgar,” Augusta laughed, using her one free hand to hold his face close.

“Wisdom is calling things by their proper name,” Goodnight muttered against her lips, not letting her get too far away. “Say I’m a cad and be done with it.”

Augusta laughed again, tipping back her head, and it took all Goodnight’s self-control not to press his lips to the soft part of her neck. She fingered the hair at the nape of his neck and looked him over. “You’re anything but a cad. Scruffy, but not a cad, and we can take care of scruffy.”

With another kiss to her cheek, Goodnight turned his attention to his daughter.

Ginny eyed him warily, her little brow knitted in confusion, and she hesitantly reached out a hand to touch his beard. She pulled gently but stared at his eyes, and Goodnight waited for her judgement. Whatever went through her mind, he didn't know, but suddenly she dropped her hand and squealed, "Daddy!"

It was heartbreaking how much she looked like Augusta, her entire face changing with a single action. Goodnight held out his hands for her, and she scrambled out of Augusta's hold and into his, showering him with her little kisses, her arms around his neck. Goodnight kissed her back, a dull warmth spreading over him, more invigorating than cider on cool autumn nights, and he wondered if anything would ever compare to the untainted love of a child, his child, Augusta's and his beautiful little daughter.

" _Ma petite étoile_ , I told you not to get any prettier," he said, brushing a knuckle across her cheek and following it with one last kiss. "If you keep this up, you'll be the prettiest belle in the parish."

"Like Mama," Ginny asked, her voice chirpy, something he hadn't expected from his daughter who had usually looked so serious.

"Just like Mama," Goodnight laughed, giving Augusta a pointed look and making her neck flush. Oh, had he ever seen a more wonderful sight? He wrapped his free arm around her waist. "Now. Where’s our boy?” 

* * *

Even though Goodnight had told Augusta he expected more pomp and circumstance than New Orleans had seen, his homecoming was more received than he'd imagined.

Beau had taken one look at them before he stopped in his tracks, jaw dropping, and then come hopping toward them, crying, “Daddy, Daddy!” Goodnight stooped to let him clamber onto his back, and, shaking hands genially with Sam, they'd loaded the carriage and set off for home. The children had fought for a place on his lap, and Augusta had hung onto his arm like he would disappear at any moment. He'd grown used to the admiration of his fellow soldiers, but if he ever became used to the utter adoration of his family, he would never deserve them.

Mammy had nearly fainted when she saw him emerge from the carriage followed by Augusta and the children. Augusta had received quite the scolding before Mammy had turned her sharp eyes to Goodnight, telling him he'd be sorry if he'd given any of her babies lice. He hadn't been allowed in the house before he'd had a bath in Mammy's cabin and his uniform tossed into a boiling pot of water.

"I know, truthfully, that you're glad to see me," Goodnight had told Mammy from behind the curtain partitioning him from her. "Tickled pink, you are."

Mammy grunted noncommittally. "If any of my babies get sick, you're not going to be glad to see me."

Goodnight had chuckled, asking when Augusta was going stop being her baby, and laughed at Mammy’s answer of, “When I’m dead." Mammy always amused him with her devotion to Augusta, but it was not a devotion he ever wanted to test, so he'd hurried with his bath and shaved his beard with a razor that, for once, was not dull or altogether useless. Augusta had brought him his favorite gray suit, and with something that felt uneasily comforting, he’d knotted his tie and gone back to the house to fetch Augusta before they left.

* * *

Aurore’s cotton fields lay beyond a row of trees which were acres from the house, giving plenty of room for the master’s pleasures: a permanent petanque court, a little maze of rose hedges, and a large, draped wisteria arbor. It amounted for an odd collection of features, which, from generations of masters just like Ames, had been thrown together randomly at will. To the west, recent use had trodden a dirt path into the dull grass. Goodnight and Mathilde, unspeaking, now took this trail, bundled against the December chill.

Goodnight couldn’t help but think that they shouldn’t have to do this. Maybe Ames been prone to laziness and indulgence, but he’d run a good plantation. He’d been kind and caring. He’d loved his food and drink, and he’d loved his family, especially his adopted one, and he had deserved a long life alongside a wife who kept him laughing and on his toes and godchildren who clung to his pant legs. Goodnight could see Ames, his hair graying, cow eyes wrinkled after years of smiling, next to him at Ginny’s wedding and shaking his head at how old they were.

Yet here they were, forty years too early, standing in front of a white marble tomb with _Ames Rene Rubadeau, 3 October 1834-17 September 1862_ inscribed on the front. Without realizing it, Goodnight’s fingers traced over the date. “He was exactly seven months older than me.”

“You’re younger,” Mathilde asked, voice hollow but curious.

Goodnight glanced over his shoulder to where she was standing, arms wrapped tightly around her body, searching for anything to keep her grounded. She shook her head, eyes glassy and almost absent, as though she wasn’t exactly looking at Goodnight in front of her husband’s tomb.

“I never knew that. He…I always thought you were older. He acted like you were his older brother, always wanting to do whatever you were doing—except go to school. He always said you would have enough book knowledge for the both of you,” Mathilde admitted, a sound escaping that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “He didn’t want to go to war. He wanted to blockade run, thought you two could do it together. He would tell me, ‘Honey, you and Aggie are going to be married to the richest men in the South when this is over.’ But then, of course, you had decided to fight, so there he went too.”

Her words felt odd against his ears, sounding like they wanted to be accusatory but couldn’t find the strength. They stung anyway, and Goodnight winced as though they had physically struck him. So Ames had never wanted to go. If only he had spoken up, Goodnight thought he would have followed Ames in blockade running—he had the brains and Ames had the enthusiasm to make them profitable—but Ames had done the following, and Goodnight couldn’t help but feel like he’d led him to his death. The blind man had lost the bluff.

“He loved you,” Mathilde added. This time a sob did break free, and she wadded her handkerchief against her mouth. It was the strangest sight he’d ever seen, watching Mathilde Verret Rubadeau weep openly.

But Goodnight supposed she wasn’t exactly the same person anymore—not that any of them were. Like Ames, she had thinned, the roses fading from her cheeks, the winds that had swept her along in a hurricane finally dying out as it reached land; facing, for the first time, real trials and sorrow, and now, faced with these trials and sorrow, Goodnight had no clue what to do besides cry with her. Not since they’d met in Richmond had he let his emotions surface, but at the sight of Mathilde, his eyes began to prickle.

“I loved him too, Mattie,” he whispered hoarsely, his throat tight. 

“Were you with him? At the end?” Her eyes told him it was the only thing she was holding onto. It was bad enough that Ames was gone, but she couldn’t bear that he had gone alone, not when he’d always had someone by his side. 

“I didn’t let him go,” Goodnight said, “he wasn’t alone.”

It should have eased his conscience, Goodnight thought, that he was telling the truth; but it didn’t. Because Ames was dead from a war in which he hadn’t wanted to fight, a war into which Goodnight had led them blindly, fooled by Southern arrogance and potential glory, and nothing he could do would bring Ames back.

Mathilde sank to the ground and grabbed hold of her knees, burying her face in her skirts. And maybe it wasn’t proper to touch another man’s wife, especially a widow, but Goodnight sank down beside her and pulled her close. Ames was dead, and he’d left behind a shattered Mathilde, who had probably only cried slightly more than Augusta in her life. He had left Goodnight, but somehow it was Goodnight's fault. Ames hadn’t wanted to go.

He didn’t know how to tell Mathilde he was sorry, so instead, he only said, “His last words were about you. How he loved you and wouldn’t have changed a thing. He was happy with you, Mattie.”

Maybe it wasn’t proper for them to do so, but Mathilde grabbed hold of Goodnight’s coat and held on tightly, letting him rock them back and forth. He knew that if the roles were reversed, Ames wouldn’t hesitate to hold Augusta and kiss her head until the tears were gone. Ames had thought of them as one family; he’d called Goodnight his brother and treated Augusta like a sister, and once, he’d told Goodnight that ‘my wife is your wife.’ Goodnight had laughed at the time, saying he appreciated the sentiment but it wasn’t quite how things worked, but now, sitting outside Ames’s tomb, he couldn’t help but feel like Mathilde was his—not his wife, that role would always be Augusta’s, but Mathilde was his.

Eventually Mathilde calmed and sniffled, “I have something for you, Goody. I'd gotten one for Ames too, so everyone would know you were Louisiana men.”

Mathilde dipped her hand into her coat pocket and produced a small box, which she offered to Goodnight. He pried off the lid to find two little pins inside, identical silver fleur-de-lis. He picked one up gingerly.

“Between our names and our uniforms, I think they know we were Louisianans.” Goodnight swallowed hard. Mathilde had never been sentimental, but she too looked like she was trying hard not to cry again. “Thank you, Mattie. Will you…”

With trembling hands, Mathilde pressed each one into either lapels then patted his vest, looking in his eyes with another hard swallow of her own. Very softly, she asked, “Goody, what will I do? Where will I go? I can't remarry, I just can't, but I don’t know the first thing about running a plantation, and if I can’t run it, there’ll be no money for the taxes. They’ll take it from me, they’ll take Aurore.”

“Hey,” Goodnight said, a bit too sharply, turning Mathilde’s face to him. This was Ames’s legacy, and he’d be damned if it was taken from Mathilde, even if he paid the taxes on it himself. “You’re not going anywhere. Ames would have had a fit if you didn’t get Aurore, and no one is going to take it from you. Now if you need help, just go see Augusta.”

“She's a saint,” Mathilde said with something like a smile. “And I love her to pieces, but she has her family to take care of without adding me in the mix.”

“You're family, Mattie,” Goodnight said solidly, and this time, Mathilde really did smile. 

* * *

They’d spent the day digging trenches, and it was more manual labor than Goodnight had done since he’d been in the army. His back aches and his face feels sunburned, and he wants nothing more than to collapse on the bed.

“Have you ever thought about going back,” Billy asks as they’re getting ready for bed. It catches Goodnight off-guard, partially because they’re both ready to go to sleep with their boots still on, partially because Billy never asks about _that_.

“Yes,” Goodnight answers truthfully after a beat, but he doesn’t offer any more information.

“Maybe…” Billy pauses, stopping with his shirt halfway unbuttoned to look at Goodnight. “Maybe after we leave here, we can go back together.”

Goodnight doesn’t know quite how to respond. After all these years, he’s hasn’t gone back not for lack of opportunity but for fear. He hasn't gone back out of cowardice. He left Louisiana that final time and hoped to move forward with his life; instead, he’s been plagued by the thought of what the state holds.

He doesn’t want to ride down the long, tree-lined drive to find Foxsong as he left it. He doesn’t want to see his children grown, Beau tall and handsome, lording over the house with Augusta’s easy smile, Ginny, the perfect likeness of her mother, married with children of her own; and he doesn’t want to see Augusta, gray beginning to overtake her black curls, crow’s feet at the edges of her wonderful eyes. He has an irrational fear that they will have gone on without him, happy as can be.

Billy meets his eye with his ever-level gaze. Goodnight wants to tell him that if they're going to go back, they should do it now, while they're still alive. They should go back now and leave this place because Goodnight is wondering what demon in the world could have possessed him to make him come in the first place. Every minute they're here, he can feel the shadows growing around, creeping closer and closer. They tug at his mind and turn his face toward the past, forever whispering for him to _remember_ . Remember the hundreds of people he's killed, soldiers and civilians. Family. _Remember how beautiful they were_ , the shadows whisper, _and remember how you killed them._

Since he'd met Sam again, Goodnight has this awful, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that atonement is closer than it's ever been, and when his atonement is over, there may not be anything else.

Why Billy is offering to go back is beyond him, but he can’t help but think he owes something to Billy. And if his is part of his atonement too, then so be it. He shakes his head and mutters, “Maybe.” 

* * *

Goodnight closed the ledger and put it back into the desk with a mix of pride and uselessness. Every column had been carefully calculated and balanced out perfectly, written in small, tidy numbers. The yearly haul had been just as profitable as could be expected, though he didn't know how Augusta had done it with the ever-tightening blockade.  
  
He glanced up at his wife, who stood worriedly in the doorway, and tried hard not to crack his serious expression at the sight of her fretfully twisting her apron; he couldn't do it. "Darlin', I don't know why you're looking like you're waiting on execution."  
  
"Does it add up?" She hesitantly took a step into the room, letting go of her now-wrinkled apron, and when he held out an arm, she moved into his hold.  
  
"Everything looks right to me." Goodnight pulled her closer to him, enjoying her weight on his knee, and pressed his face into her shoulder. This should be his life: going over accounts in the office, Augusta distracting him from work after long days when he wants nothing more than to sit on the sofa with a book and his family.  
  
"There was something I wanted to ask you about the sugar," Augusta said. Brushing curls from her face, Goodnight arched an eyebrow for her to elaborate. She licked her lips nervously. "The blockader I was using got caught last month, and as far as I know, he was the last one still running."  
  
"So now what?"  
  
"Well," Augusta licked her lips again, "I've—I've made friends or… _something_ with a Yankee speculator. He's offered to buy with gold and not greenbacks. I know he's a Yankee, but—"  
  
"Augusta," Goodnight said seriously. She swallowed hard as she met his eye.  
  
Why she was so nervous, Goodnight didn't quite know; he understood what she was asking, but it didn't warrant the fear. He understood that when the city looked to the Robicheaux family as models of behavior, she was nervous of what the city would think if the lady of the house did business with Yankees when her husband was the Goodnight Robicheaux, the Angel of Death. But he couldn’t have cared less what the city thought of them, so long as they were provided for.

He fought with Yankees, not his wife, yet the pallor of her cheeks suggested Augusta was waiting on him to scold her for betraying the Cause.

Goodnight told himself it wasn’t hypocritical. He had seen too many civilians already rationing out meager portions of food they once would have thrown to the hounds after dinner. He'd seen men with the soles of their boots worn to nothing, and women with dresses being turned again for another season. While Goodnight hated the thought of being seen in boots so shabby, his own worn boots were manageable; it was the thought of his family not having the necessities when they deserved the very finest that bothered him the most.

Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, Goodnight tipped her face to his. "Gus, darlin', I don't care what you do. Sell, or don't sell. Just don't let them starve."  
  
"I won't," Augusta said, voice hollow and uncertain.

“I mean it. There's too many people here depending on us. If selling our sugar is what it takes to survive, don't hesitate. But make sure you and the children have shoes on your feet and food in your stomachs.” 

“Yes, Goody,” she whispered with less conviction than before, ducking her head and avoiding his eye.  

* * *

That evening when Goodnight had supper at Foxsong for the first time, Augusta got so excited that she served the meal herself, leaving everyone at the table slack-jawed and wide-eyed. She piled food onto Goodnight’s plate until the surface disappeared, and she didn’t let much of the plate show before she was heaping more onto it. Eventually, Goodnight made her sit down before she forgot about her own meal—and before Anastasie could complain that Augusta was doing slave work.

They retired to bed that night after a bedtime story made lengthy by encores from everyone from Anastasie's Theodore, the oldest, to Salome's Solomon, the youngest. His chest swelling affectionately, Goodnight leaned against the doorframe and watched as every child in the house piled onto Beau’s bed, gathering as closely as possible to Augusta, who moved and spoke in that very same way that had captured his attention at the Magees’ so many years ago. He watched the children’s rapt faces, eyes unblinking, breath held, and he chuckled when Ginny, seeing Augusta’s sad expression and hearing her tone, patted her mother’s skirt in support. The encores only ended when Goodnight physically pulled Augusta from their clutches and promised an equally riveting story the next night, but at the moment, their aunt was needed elsewhere.

Like the previous one, the night was restless. Goodnight and Augusta fell into bed in a tangle of limbs, after which came a conversation about future plans. While they knew what they were asking for, and as much as they loved them, neither wanted another child until Goodnight was home for good, though they agreed that if they should have any more, the next child would be named after Ames. In the mornings, they woke in a similar tangle of limbs and were slow to rectify it, taking comfort each other’s newly-found warmth. They laid in bed, under piles of quilts, their fingers playing absently over the other’s skin, as if in awe that they were truly together again. When he awoke with his face buried in a mass of black curls and her legs tangled with his, Goodnight almost forgot that he’d ever left and things had changed.

But things had changed, besides the fact that Foxsong had become overrun with Evercreeches. Now when Beau pulled out his books, he didn't make up stories, but he read the words on the pages, slowly, tripping, but determined, and excited when he sounded out his words. Quiet little Ginny spoke easily when she did speak, her voice containing all the merriment of her brother, in stark contrast to her serious expressions. And as for his wife, he often found her staring blankly at nothing, shoulders slumped, the perpetual smile gone from her mouth until she realized she was not alone, in which case she shook her head and put on her usual face.

For Goodnight, though, the most unsettling change was with his mother. Mrs. Robicheaux had been much subdued since her husband had died, but she had always stayed active, helping Augusta around the house. Now she often sat alone by the parlor fire, staring out the window or watching the children play on the rug. She rarely spoke unless spoken to or unless Beau or Ginny clambered onto her lap.

“Does she seem all right to you,” Goodnight asked softly on his fourth night home. The parlor was unusually quiet, Oceane having gone to bed _sick_ and Anastasie following soon with a headache. Salome knitted on the sofa, and many of the children were already in bed, though Theodore was entertaining Beau with the younger boy’s trains, and Ginny had begged to stay in Goodnight’s arms.

Augusta glanced up from her cards and followed the jerk of his head to Mrs. Robicheaux. Understanding passed over her eyes, but she kept her face impassive. “She's told me a few times that her back hurts, but that’s been all she’s said.”

“Well, she is old,” Goodnight sighed, flicking his eyes up to Augusta's, who held his gaze for a long time. “I suppose it's to be expected.”

“Goody…” Augusta began, dropping the cards onto the table and reaching for him, but whatever she'd been about to say was cut off by Beau wanting to join his sister on Goodnight’s lap; he shifted Ginny to one knee to make room for Beau.

Simultaneously, Goodnight and Augusta dropped their seriousness, and Goodnight, with great finesse not to drop either child, scooped their cards into a single deck to shuffle, saying, “All right, son, you've got to help me out. Your mama is as wily as they come, and she's going to cheat the moment you take your eyes off her.”

Dealing the cards into two piles, Goodnight slid one across the table to Augusta. “Threes beat faces—”

“But fours beat aces,” Augusta finished, a smirk lighting up her eyes. She snatched the cards from the table. “Whatever you think will help you win.”

“Do you hear that, Beau? That was not ladylike, was it?” Goodnight bounced Beau on his lap and smiled into his curls. “Flip a card over for me, son. Let's remind her of her manners.”

Beau happily complied, and they launched into the game. Forgetting their topic of conversation, Goodnight focused on his wife and children, allowing himself to rejoice in their presence which had been missing for far too long. When Goodnight had left nearly two years ago, Beau had been too young to understand even this simple game; now he could flip over a card and understand that the highest number won. He had missed watching Augusta teach the children their numbers and letters, had missed Beau learning how to write, holding his pen between clumsy fingers and making messy characters across the page. When he’d left nearly two years ago, Ginny had been barely speaking and had toddled around slowly; now she could carry on conversations and run after her brother and cousins, though she still opted to cuddle in laps.

Goodnight pulled his children closer and laughed when Beau, shrieking in triumph, caught Augusta blatantly cheating.  

* * *

Goodnight has the bad reputation for being a fitful sleeper, but he’s yet to see Sam fully asleep.

Goodnight is pushing himself in a rocking chair outside the hotel, trying to figure out what has happened when the other man takes a seat next to him. He doesn’t say anything at first, silent as ever, and when Goodnight holds out his cigarette, he’s beyond shocked when Sam, after a moment’s thought, accepts a smoke. They share a look, and Goodnight can’t help but think this is their peace pipe.

“Where’s Billy,” Sam asks casually, almost sounding like he’s trying to make conversation, but Goodnight knows Sam would as soon ask about the weather as he would wear a dress.

“Just because wherever I go Billy goes doesn’t mean we’ve stitched our britches together,” Goodnight replies, taking his cigarette back.

“How long’ve you been with him?”

“About a year, year-and-a-half after you and I…split.” Goodnight takes a long drag while he lets the words settle between them, and even after the pause, they still don’t feel right. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for that.”

Sam gives him a what anyone else might consider a blank look, but Goodnight knows better. He continues, “I owed you more than I ever repaid.”

“Ah hell, you weren’t the one who owed anything. I was just trying to repay my own debt,” Sam sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and Goodnight snorts.

“Sam, if she heard you saying anything like that, she truly would wring your neck.”

Goodnight doesn’t think before the words slip out, but Sam makes no notice of what he’d said. Instead, he's the one who snorts this time. “Goody, she would have wrung both our necks by now.”

“Mine a couple of times,” Goodnight adds, and Sam graces him with a rare smile.

This is how it should have been, Goodnight thinks. He should have been with Sam these past twelve years, traipsing over the country, spending nights talking softly over a fire. Sam would have beaten the sense back into him, as opposed to Billy’s slow coaxing. If he wants to be incredibly bitter, he should have spent the past twelve years sitting in a rocking chair at Foxsong, laughing quietly with Sam as his grandchildren crawl over the both of them. Goodnight wants to say it isn’t fair how things turned out for either of them, but, well…Goodnight knows he had it coming. If it isn’t fair for one of them, it isn’t fair for Sam.

“She probably would’ve,” Sam agrees, “but you seem happy now.” 

Goodnight nods slowly. For what it’s been, he has been happy with Billy. Exactly how long he’s been happy, he isn’t sure, but he knows it’s been longer than when he finally realized that he was truly content.

Yet something won’t let him be happy. He knows it’s himself, but he can’t let it go, the guilt, the sorrow. He and Billy can be joking merrily, and he’s happy, but then suddenly Billy reminds him of blond hair and brown cow eyes set into a plump face, cheeks reddened by alcohol and merriment. Sometimes, when Goodnight listens to Billy's deadpan, he laughs before he remembers Salome, beautiful, ornery Salome Saucier with her swaying hips and heart-stopping glare; Salome wearing his bonnet though she'd been disapproving of the color. And always, _always_ , when gentle hands and a soft voice wake Goodnight from a nightmare, he remembers Augusta.  
  
"I miss them, Sam, every single one of them. Salome, Ames, even Mattie. She did me a dirty, but I miss her anyway."  
  
"We don't know if she did that," Sam insists, but he shakes his head. His own face is washed of stoicism and features something wistful, something deeply-buried and long-forgotten. But feelings and memories can never be completely buried. “She was something else, but she was a good woman.”

“I miss her most,” Goodnight whispers, and Sam lowers his head, knowing that the _her,_ the good woman in question, is not Mathilde. Once, Goodnight had been furious with Sam, that he could ever dream of grieving, but slowly he'd realized that Sam had loved her too, and Sam had loved her longer. Sam had watched her go from diapers to a wedding veil, and then he'd watched her go. If he thought impartially, Goodnight would half-admit that Sam had more right than he did to grieve.

“Every day. Every day, I miss Augusta." Sam's head jerks up sharply, genuine surprise playing on his features at Goodnight’s words. " _Ma vie_. At the wedding, I told her she was the sun upon my face and the song upon my lips, and I would love her with every breath in my body for she was life itself. She was everything beautiful, and she took it with her. There wasn't life without Miss Augusta Evercreech.”

“Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux,” Sam corrects, and Goodnight nods.

“Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux.”

“Haven't heard you say her name in a long time,” Sam says, and Goodnight wonders if he means that he hasn't said it either. For a while, their names had become taboo, spoken only by Mammy and always driving a wedge into their hearts.

“Well,” Goodnight says but pauses. Augusta had been his _vie_. He'd thrived in her wake and worshiped the ground she’d considered walking on. She'd been his reason to get up in the mornings and make Foxsong profitable, then to live to pull the trigger another day. He'd called her the sun on his face, and in the end, she'd snuffed out that fire and left him in a freezing, endless night—until one day, he'd looked up and found the moon.

“Well, it has been a long time,” Goodnight finishes. Sam looks like he wants to say something else, but when he doesn't, Goodnight stands and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I'm glad you're here,” Sam says the second Goodnight touches him.

Goodnight almost recoils, scalded by Sam’s double-meaning, but instead he swallows hard. He lingers a moment. He isn't glad to be here. He has no ties to this place, no reason for being here except for Sam, who had blinded him so easily that he could have been Augusta herself. One mention of Sam was all it had taken to derail him from the life he'd had with Billy, and the longer he's in Rose Creek, the more Goodnight thinks he and Billy could have been happy on their own; not Foxsong happy, but happy, a different sort of happy. He should have learned his mistake the first time, yet here he is, repeating 1861 all over again. Here in a foreign land, he's simultaneously abandoning Billy and leading him to slaughter. He should have learned his lesson about blazing blindly into war. Maybe Goodnight had come to keep Sam from making the same mistakes that he had, but he felt like he was doing nothing more than enabling them. Maybe he came looking for Augusta, but he was finding her in all the wrong ways. “I'm glad to see you.”

He leaves Sam sitting there, hoping Sam got his message, and heads toward the room he's sharing with Billy.

* * *

Since he’d been home, since he’d had Augusta’s figure around which to conform his body, Goodnight had been sleeping peacefully, like he had always done before he’d taken a train across the country, in contrast to restless nights spent on the hard ground, cold depending on the season. There was something soothing even in his sleep about Augusta’s solid warmth, the way her curls slipped from her braid and played at his neck, something soothing in the easy rise and fall of her breathing.

This easiness lasted a week before he found himself harrowed by his mind.

A little part of him knew he was dreaming and that he was in bed with his wife, her limbs entwined with his, their children just down the hall, but that little part of him didn't stop the anxiety from filling his chest.

He was stuck in a dirt pit, just wide enough for him to stand in, long enough for him to lie down, tall enough for the lip to be just out of reach. Overhead, red splashes flashed against the black sky, leaving trails of dark smoke in their wake; he winced with every bang and flash, but he knew he had to get out. When jumping for the lip made no avail, Goodnight took a running start and leaped for it, but he fell short and slid down the wall, leaving ten little ridges where his nails scraped away the dirt. The more he tried and failed, the more panic filled his chest. There was a primal need to escape and run, to get away from the explosions, but nothing he did helped. He couldn't find a root to grab or a foothold to climb, and he couldn't dig one out either.

And then a shadow, clad in black, appeared over the edge, thin but broad-shouldered, features indistinguishable even with the flashes of light. Whoever it was held a rifle in hand, and Goodnight stretched out his arm to the newcomer, hoping he would lower the rifle to help him up.

He did. His movements were graceful, proud, and he lowered the gun into the pit as if they had all the time in the world. Goodnight took hold and pushed off the wall, and the other man pulled on his end of the rifle. As he pulled, something large and heavy fell past Goodnight. He glanced over his shoulder to see what had joined him, only to find the body of a man in a blue uniform, decorated like an officer, a bloody, gaping hole in the back of his skull. Goodnight's heart stopped, and he almost let his hold go when another fell next to the first, and another, and another. This one was a colonel, that was a general.

Blood chilling, Goodnight's grip slipped when a Zouave fell next to him, rolling away. He knew the back of that blond head from his childhood. He clambered over blue bodies to get to the Zouave, who only had blood seeping through the bottom of his coat. If he hurried, Goodnight could save him. If he hoisted him onto his shoulders, Goodnight could get them both out of this pit. Ames was heavy, but Goodnight dragged him back to where the shadowy man stood. He reached up again, but the man didn't lower his rifle.

“Please,” Goodnight begged, shifting Ames on his shoulders. “Please!”

But the shadow shook his head.

Goodnight's heart pounded. He knew his options, but he couldn't choose. The man couldn't pull them both up, but if he didn't take hold of that rifle, he wouldn't be able to get out. He couldn't give up Ames, but he had to get out and get back to Augusta. Selfishness, or sacrifice.

“Please,” Goodnight begged again, stretching his fingers as far as they would go.

“ _Goody,”_ someone called to him, sounding oddly angelic amidst the chaos. He'd never expected the man to sound so wonderful.

“Help me,” he pleaded. 

“ _Goody, sweetheart,”_ the voice said again.

Then something landed on his shoulder and made him nearly piss himself. He rounded on whatever had touched him with full intent to harm, and as he turned, his hand struck something soft.

A crash like glass shattering brought him to his senses, and Goodnight woke with a gasp, his eyes flying open, searching for whatever had fallen.

He turned over his shoulder to find Augusta wide-eyed, her mouth open in a silent gasp of her own, the front of her dressing gown soaked. Pieces of glass glittered in the moonlight on the floor. She floundered for a moment before she reached for the matches in the nightstand drawer. “I-I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean—”

“Augusta,” Goodnight said, realization of what he had done settling over him, “did I strike you?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Augusta said quickly. Her hands trembled too much for her to light the match, and she ruined two before she managed to light the lamp. “You startled me, that was all.”

“I hit you,” Goodnight stated with a sinking feeling. His hand had made contact with something, and he knew it was Augusta.

He'd hit his wife.

“It's not like that. You were…you were calling out for help, and I scared you. I should have been more careful,” Augusta insisted, bending to pick up the remains of a glass, shaking her head but not catching his gaze. That was worse than her scowling and striking him back. Anything would have been better than her gentle submissiveness, he would have deserved anything besides that. If anyone else had dared think to touch her, Goodnight would have murdered them without a second thought; he'd never imagined he would be the one to actually harm her, and now he had no idea what to do.

“Augusta, stop.” Immediately Goodnight rose from bed. She did as she was told but still didn't meet his gaze, keeping her eyes focused determinedly on anything but him. From the way her hands were shaking, Goodnight took the shards from her and placed them carefully on the nightstand before she cut herself. He tipped her face up to him. “Darlin’, I can’t begin to tell you just how sorry I am.”

“You don’t have any reason to be,” Augusta said once she met his gaze, voice losing its tremble, eyes softening. “We both startled each other. Let’s try to go back to bed.”

And they did, Augusta pulling him close, her fingers raking through his hair, her head pressed to his heart. Petting her gently, Goodnight kissed her face, murmured apologies in English and French, poems he had memorized, poems he made up, and hoped she understood how guilty he felt. Wasn't fighting in the war bad enough, or would he sink so low that he hit his wife?

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Augusta sat at her vanity while Mammy did her hair. They rarely did this anymore, with Augusta putting her hair into a braid or net every day, and paired with her nerves, it made her feel like a girl again—or at least like the war had never come. Mammy was humming, smiling as though she was thinking the same thing, but there was a mischievousness about her mouth that hinted at ulterior motives.

“Tilt your head down, baby,” Mammy murmured, and Augusta complied, thinking her head doubled in weight when Mammy added all those pins to her hair. But it would be worth it to see Goodnight’s reaction, so long as he saw her first.

From the hall outside came the sound of footsteps. Augusta and Mammy tensed when they heard them, but when the footsteps were too light to be a man’s, Augusta froze.

She didn’t want to deal with her sisters today. They’d been on their best behavior the first few days Goodnight was home, mostly keeping out of her way, but their best behavior only went so far. In the past four days alone, there had been three screaming matches, six fainting spells, and one broken vase, which had made Augusta, in her fury, shake Oceane back to her senses—because she was _fine and not bleeding_ —and demand Salome clean up the mess herself. Goodnight had watched the latter episode with nothing short of amusement, though the blood had rushed up Augusta’s neck when she’d found him in the doorway, his lopsided grin threatening to break into a full smile and one eyebrow cocked just so. Now it was Christmas Eve, and they just _had_ to behave.

Without a warning knock, the door opened to reveal Oceane, who stepped inside and lingered at the doorway. She hadn’t brought too many dresses in her flight from Baton Rouge, but for the occasion, she had donned her best, a cobalt ensemble that set fire to her deep red hair. A question played on her lips, making Augusta hopeful that she would be civil, but Oceane looked her baby sister over once with eyes startling bright in her beautiful, pale face, and as her eyebrow imitated Salome, it was clear any civility had just slipped from thought.

“Oh. That’s what you’re wearing,” Oceane asked. To anyone else, it would have been an innocent question, but the fire, having escaped from her hair to her eyes, gave an almost nasty meaning to Mammy and Augusta. Twisting her shoulders with a spritely bop of her head, Oceane smiled something close to a haughty snarl. “Well...I thought we were supposed to look nice for the evening.”

Augusta fingered the white fabric of the sash around her waist and swallowed hard, wishing with all her might—and not for the first time—that Oceane would disappear. All she wanted was for a nice, normal Christmas Eve for Goodnight, and she knew he loved this dress on her, the way her hair stood out against the white basque and the green piping and skirt made her eyes look darker. But Oceane would have been portrait-ready if she'd been wearing a flour sack, and she refused to let her position as the most beautiful sister be challenged.

“I like this dress,” Augusta said when she'd thought she had enough gusto to make her words sound solid; Oceane could detect insecurity like a sixth sense. Unfortunately, her words came out flat and mousy.

“Oh, that dress is _fine,_ I suppose. But really, I just assumed that since it was your husband who's home, and since he is Goodnight Robicheaux, that you'd opt for something more…pleasing,” Oceane said, moving to sit on Augusta's bed as if aiming to watch Mammy pin her hair and add more critiques. She giggled in the girlish way that had once swayed the hearts of every man in Louisiana and added, “But then again, you have always liked the plainer things. Which was why it was so shocking to me when you ended up engaged to Goodnight.”

Mammy jabbed a pin into Augusta's hair with too much force, and Augusta winced, both at the pin and Mammy rounding on Oceane.

“Miss Oceane, your presence ain't needed here,” Mammy snapped harshly.

Oceane’s eyes widened like she'd received a great, uncalled-for insult, and she glanced towards Augusta, perhaps wondering if her sister would let such an act of defiance stand. But Augusta kept her head down with the hope Oceane wouldn't see the red in her face. With a humph, Oceane tossed her beautiful head and swept from the room, leaving a tenseness between Augusta and Mammy.

 _Damn Oceane,_ Augusta wanted to say, but she didn't want to have that conversation with Mammy. She wanted to pretend her sisters weren't at Foxsong to spoil another Christmas, and that Oceane wasn't so adroit at making her feel inferior.

“You sure ruffled her feathers,” Mammy said when she was gone.

Augusta kept toying with her sash, feeling like her feathers were the ones that had been ruffled instead. “Why can't she just leave me alone? We're grown women, why doesn’t she understand I’m not her enemy?”

“She's mad I did your hair and not hers,” Mammy explained, catching Augusta’s gaze in the mirror. Augusta managed a grin at her nurse, knowing good and well that was not why Oceane had attacked, but the fact Mammy was trying made her feel almost better.

* * *

While Augusta fought Beau into a pair of shoes, the rest of the family gathered in the parlor before dinner.

Perhaps since it was Christmas and she was feeling charitable, Anastasie entertained her boys with all the grace and warmth of Southern mothers, and they tentatively crowded around her, their eyes glittering in wonder. Salome sat in one of the high-backed chairs with Solomon and watched with something somewhere between contempt and amusement as Oceane commandeered the attention of the rest of the room. As for Goodnight, he lounged across the sofa with his mother, doing his best to get a rise out of her, but so far she had been as graceful as always, and much less inclined to reply.

They had decorated the house as usual for Christmas, with candles in every window and garland and holly draped over every surface imaginable. Augusta had surprised him with another tree that morning, and they’d spent the day stringing berries and corn along until they had enough to wrap around it; Goodnight had wanted to put candles in it too, but Augusta was too scared of the house catching fire as it was.

Augusta entered with Beau clinging to her back and Ginny to her front, the three laughing away, and as always, Goodnight was drawn to them. Before he could realize he'd risen from the couch, he swept Ginny from her mother’s arms, saying, “ _Ma petite etoile_ , where shall I ever find another girl as wonderful as you?”

Ginny giggled at his remark, and for a moment, Goodnight was reminded of her smiling at him from around her sugar tit, just before they’d received a letter from Charleston—before the election when the world had fallen apart. He kissed her cheek before turning his attention to Augusta. As she smiled bashfully, Goodnight thought of their first Fat Tuesday ball, when she’d been radiant and _his_ for the first time. Sometimes he wondered if she’d ever be as beautiful as she had been that night, but other times, like now, he thought that night didn’t compare. Pulling her flush with an arm around her waist, Goodnight kissed her squarely on the lips.

“Oh, _ma vie_ , I will never in my life meet anyone as bewitching,” Goodnight sighed. When Augusta glanced hesitantly over his shoulder, he turned to find the room staring at them, his mother shaking her head, the children whispering behind their hands, and Salome almost smiling.

Oceane looked furious.

“Pardon my manners, ladies,” Goodnight said graciously, tipping his head their way, “but you must know that a man’s greatest treasure is his wife.”

Oceane plastered a smile onto her face, and her hands twitched like she wanted to wrap them around Goodnight’s neck for such an insult. Goodnight thought he should feel guilty, but nothing of the sort ever surfaced. _Poor Oceane_ , he thought, _having first her thunder stolen by Augusta and then her claim to fame._

“Let's go in to dinner,” Mrs. Robicheaux said, surprising nearly everyone in the room by speaking up. No one questioned her authority, though, as if they were still conditioned to listen to her as the Mrs. Robicheaux, and they paraded into the dining room.

As Goodnight took his place at the foot of the table, Augusta settled Beau and Ginny on either of her sides, letting them join the adults since it was Christmas. Oceane’s fury radiated throughout the air and made the hair on the back of Goodnight’s stand up; not for the first time, he thought Oceane was probably a demon, or maybe a boo-hag—that would explain where Augusta got her inspiration for stories. If anyone else noticed, they paid her no mind, waiting patiently to be served.

Perhaps it was the lack of attention at her outrage, but the cook had no sooner ladled out Oceane’s portion of soup before Oceane had taken a sip and snarled her dainty little nose. She snorted, “Augusta, this tastes like something you would have made.”

“It’s fine, Oceane,” Salome said immediately in her slow voice, giving Oceane a surprisingly level look. Across the table, Goodnight watched Augusta, paying no attention to Oceane’s comment, set her jaw and calmly ask the cook a question he couldn’t hear.

Oceane’s nostrils flared, but she made no further comment until everyone was well into dinner and enjoying the holiday together, a mistake made by nearly everyone in attendance; if Oceane wasn't happy, no one was allowed to be happy.

She scowled at Beau and Ginny, who were quietly, unobtrusively eating their soup. “I never would have thought you'd let them at the table.”

“They're not animals, just children, and they have to learn how to behave at some point,” Augusta said, rounding on Oceane with an impressive scowl of her own.

The table sucked in a collective breath at Augusta’s outburst, and even Oceane realized she had picked a fight with the one subject that would make Augusta fight back, as she grinded her teeth and shrugged. She was used to a passive baby sister and seemed not to want one who would fight back. “Well, I just thought you wanted dinner tonight to be nice. But here we are with children at the table, and look at what you've selected tonight.”

Goodnight took in the contents of the dinner table: turkey with chestnut stuffing, mashed sweet potato balls, sugar plums, oysters. They weren't the usual dinner Augusta would have put together; for Christmas, she preferred a ham, and she couldn't stand oysters, but they were all some of his favorite dishes. He met her eye across the table. “Darlin’, this is a wonderful spread.”

While Augusta nodded slightly at his compliment, Oceane’s head jerked towards him, mouth set in a thin line. She had worked herself into such a tizzy that, to Goodnight, she had lost all beauty. She raised her chin into the air as though Goodnight was picking a battle with her and turned back to Augusta.

“Really, Augusta, there are oysters on the table. Whoever heard of something so common as oysters at Christmas,” Oceane whined.

“Oceane,” Anastasie sighed, and Salome barked, “Shut _up_.”

But Oceane, twisting her shoulders, pressed on, smiling serenely like she'd just been told a very funny joke, “Yes, it is very common. I guess not even marrying a Robicheaux couldn't fix that, could it?”

Goodnight’s jaw fell open. Paying him no heed, Oceane straightened her back in triumph at a blow that made Augusta focus her attention on wiping at Ginny’s mouth. He didn't know what Oceane was accomplishing by this, but Augusta was retreating into the far-off place he had often watched her disappear into when dealing with her sisters, her eyes glossing over, mouth losing its perpetual smile for a frown. This was the Augusta that Goodnight had seen too much of since he’d been home, and it scared him. She had always been so immovable and steady, always quick with a smile or laugh, the one who kept the family moving forward. Goodnight couldn’t watch the war make her withdrawn. It was bad enough that there was a war in the first place without Augusta losing her spirit.

“Oceane,” Goodnight thundered, shooting to his feet as the chair scraped harshly against the floor. All eyes turned to him, heads swiveling as the attention turned from Oceane to Goodnight. “That’s enough. You’ll treat your sister, _my wife,_ with respect because need I remind you that you’re in my house. And you’re a guest.”

He let enough venom drip off the last word that Oceane’s and Anastasie’s jaws dropped, and he knew his message had been received. This was not Oceane’s territory, nor Anastasie’s or Salome’s, and it was only by the extreme goodness of Augusta’s heart that they had been allowed to stay for so long; they would comply with the rules of the master, or they would leave. 

Goodnight glanced down the table. Salome was regarding him with a genuine smile, ready to burst into laughter, and his mother was as impassive as ever. But his children were startled, blinking quickly, having never seen their warm father raise his voice, and Augusta wore her stoic, ready-to-welcome-anything face, eyes level. Without a word, she rose to her feet, and followed Goodnight when he left the room.

She snagged their coats from the foyer while Goodnight kept walking, down the hall to the back porch, only stopping when Augusta grabbed hold of his arm and held out his coat. Once he’d helped her into hers, they made their way into the night, across the fields of Foxsong.

They moved quietly, quickly, over their well-trodden path, until Goodnight realized Augusta was all but running to keep up with his long strides. Allowing her grip on the crook of his arm to relax, he slowed his pace to a meander. Her arm in his, Augusta by his side—this was how it was supposed to be.

“I’m sorry they’ve ruined dinner,” Augusta said when the babbling of the creek came into earshot.

“Don’t apologize to me. You deal with it day in and day out,” Goodnight replied, shaking his head. He took her hands and pressed her knuckles to his lips. “Besides, I’m slightly proud of myself. I don’t think anyone has ever made your sisters speechless.”

Augusta laughed, her head tipping back, and she threw her arms around his neck, kissing his lips. This was the Augusta that he knew. “Oh, Goody, you’re too much, but how I love you anyway.”

She tugged her coat tighter around her shoulders, and Goodnight noted how warm it was to be wearing furs. Once he wouldn’t have thought twice about wearing furs in Louisiana, but after spending last winter in the snowy mountains of Virginia, he couldn’t help but think how unnecessary furs were here. Seeming to sense his distant thoughts, Augusta hummed, gazing around them, at the water trickling slowly down the creek, the moonlight dancing off ripples, at the willow waving gently in the crisp winter chill, and smiled in her sleepy, content way.

“You know, I can’t remember us coming here at night, not even with all our slipping away we did once upon a time.” When she turned to him, Goodnight was reminded of a summer barbecue and a porch-side story, waiting in a foyer with Ames for their respective belles to make their entrances; of a Mardi Gras parade where her face glowed from the flambeaux; of a bashful glance from beneath a white veil. What would she look like with the snow falling down around her, dusting her black hair, reddening her little nose and cheeks without her easy embarrassment?

One day, when the war was over, just once for his family to experience it comfortably in enough furs and blankets that they never knew what it felt like to have their toes numbed to the point that walking was a trial—they would go somewhere with snow; not to Virginia or Maryland or anywhere close, not Kansas or the mountains of South Carolina. They would go somewhere that had no ties to the war, and then they would stay at Foxsong all the days of their life.

“Goody,” she asked, breaking him from his reverie, a hint of worry playing in her eyes.

Goodnight shook his head and smiled. “Gus. We were not sneaking around.”

“Oh, how silly of me. There was nothing sneaky about us at all.” Augusta shook her head too, making her curls bounce in the way had that so enticed him upon their first meeting. “Goody?”

“Gus?”

“If I had a personal heaven, it would look something like this—or, this in the springtime, early summer. However it looked when we met. And I’d have you and Beau and Ginny. That’s all I need,” Augusta whispered. Her fingers wrapped around his lapel, and Goodnight buried his face in the crook of her neck, his stomach flipping when she moved her fingers from his coat to his hair.

If he had a personal Heaven, it would be something like this too.

* * *

When they went back toward the house, Goodnight and Augusta found their children in Mammy’s cabin having pudding with Sam. Mammy was nowhere to be seen, which explained why the children had been allowed to have pudding so late in the evening. All thoughts of dinner gone, they allowed Goodnight to carry them back to bed and tuck them in, so long as he told them a bedtime story better than their mother's. Augusta watched them fondly for only as long as it took to take off her necklace and earbobs before she made her way to her bedroom.

As she passed down the hall, multiple voices came from inside Salome’s room. She stopped, considering joining her sisters for a moment, but decided Oceane’s dinner wounds were still too fresh.

“Why does he act like that with her,” Augusta heard Oceane say, somewhere between a hiss and a whine. “He’s always, _always_ fawning over her, all his compliments and caresses. Do you remember the Fat Tuesday ball right after they’d gotten engaged, that black dress she wore—he bought that for her and she accepted it! Why, thank goodness none of our husbands have the indecency to ever do such things. Honestly, though, I never would have thought our baby sister or a Robicheaux could ever be so crass. I’ll bet he even kisses her in public.”

“Oh, will you ever grow up,” Salome snapped irritably. There was a clanking of metal and swishing of a skirt. “Have you ever thought that perhaps he’s proud and loves her?”

Oceane huffed, “So just because Julien isn’t downright ostentatious, that means he doesn’t love me? Because let me remind you, sissy, that Dorian never does anything like that with you.”

“When will you ever stop being a bitch? First dinner, now this,” Salome said venomously.

“You know,” Anastasie said before Oceane could respond, timid for perhaps the first time in her life. “You know, I think I agree with Sal. Dorian isn’t Goodnight, and neither is Julien. If they want to act like they’re in love or act like they’re complete strangers, that’s their business. And you were a bit snotty at dinner, Oceane. Maybe you should apologize.”

“Me, apologize? I have no reason to apologize,” Oceane snorted.

“Heavens, Oceane, you were downright cruel. You’ve always been downright cruel for no good reason besides she took your title as the baby in the family, and you couldn’t stand she was getting a little attention. If Augusta murders you one day, I’ll help her hide your body because she’ll have every right to have done so,” Salome said, losing her venom for something entirely civil.

“Sal!” Oceane cried, while Anastasie snickered but didn’t rebuke Salome.

Augusta grinned; it felt nice to have someone on her side, even if it was mean, ornery Salome, who had kept her spot as favorite sister. Before she could tiptoe away, Goodnight closed the door to the nursery, and Augusta, facing him quickly, pressed a finger to her lips. Goodnight cocked an eyebrow but kept quiet, though he laughed silently to himself.

“Eavesdropping isn't very ladylike,” Goodnight teased as he turned the lock on their door.

She caught Goodnight's eye in the mirror and shrugged. Wrong as it was, it was hard to feel guilty for eavesdropping after a lifetime of Oceane. “Oceane isn't very ladylike either. I don't feel guilty at all.”

With a sharp bark of laughter, Goodnight reached for her hairpins while Augusta worked on the buttons to her basque.

* * *

Over the years, Goodnight’s dreams have gradually gotten better, though a few rotten ones always creep into his mind. He’s slept, in all fairness, peacefully—too much so—over the past few months, so it’s no surprise when memories keep him awake that night.

The driveway to the house is forever long, it feels, but Goodnight can see where the trees break to give way to the bright green yard of Foxsong, the fountain in the front, the white-columned house in all its splendor. His feet, cut and bloody from the barefoot, thousand-mile walk, ache so badly he doesn't know how he can still stand, but he'd crawl on hands and knees to get here—steal a horse, commit highway robbery, nothing can be so much worse than he's already done, and he just has to get there. He can make amends once he's there, safe within beautiful walls and unyielding arms. Any moment now, the trees will open. It's within grasp, and he is finally _home_.

And it seems luck is finally on his side, for once the trees break, there she is at the top of the front stairs, black hair standing out against the white house. She's beautiful, he knows, and everything he needs. His heart is pounding like he’s just sprinted for miles, making him feel like a nervous boy trying to approach his first dance partner or a man watching a storm roll ever closer. But he's made it too far for his heart to stop now.

"Gus," he calls, amazed he has the air in his lungs for it to be as loud as it is.

She falters, hand grabbing the rail, reeling like she's found herself trapped in a nightmare, but she looks over her shoulder anyway, slowly at first, then quickly when she sees someone lingering on the property.

"Goody," she cries, and even from this far away, he can see the light in her eyes, her face breaking into that wide smile. She scampers down the stairs toward him, tripping on her skirts halfway down and making her hoist them past her knees, and then she's sprinting across the drive towards him, baring her pantalets to the world, as narrow-minded as he is. Her slippers fly off her feet in her haste, and, like him, she runs forward barefoot but unfeeling the ground below. How he has the strength to run, he isn't quite sure, besides the fact that he's _home_.

She flings herself towards his outstretched arms. The embrace he's been waiting for he's finally found, and he closes his eyes, ready to feel her finally against him—

Except, it's not Augusta who presses to his chest, he knows that without looking. He knows the curving form of her back and the softness of her chest as well as he knows the back of his own hand. This person in his arms is tall and firm, well-muscled, lithe, and when he opens his eyes, he's met with black hair, straight and not curled. He knows this person, too, like the back of his hand.

He'd been expecting Augusta, but he lets himself linger in the embrace anyway.

* * *

“Sam,” Miss Augusta said once he'd climbed into the buggy next to her. She was staring blankly ahead like a prisoner awaiting execution, but when he looked at her, she dropped her eyes and knotted her handkerchief. “Sam, what if we don't go back?”

“Where do you want to go,” Sam asked in reply, not yet flicking the reins. He kept his voice steady, not showing his worry.

“Somewhere…I don't know, somewhere not home.” Miss Augusta rubbed at her eyes furiously, and Sam tentatively put a hand on her arm. When she lowered her fist, Sam feared she would burst into tears. “I can't keep sending him away on the train, Sam.”

“He's going to come home,” Sam said, giving her arm a squeeze.

"One of these times he won't. It's bad enough watching him go, trying to tell our children where he is and why he isn't home. They were so happy these past few weeks. I can't tell them he won't come back," she whispered.

Sam couldn't blame her for not wanting to go home. He didn't want Miss Augusta to go back to Foxsong, and he didn't want tot go back either. Part of him was tempted to steer the horses west, away from New Orleans and Louisiana as a whole, not a clue where to go besides away. He knew they would never get far, not when he had his mother and sisters and Miss Augusta had Mrs. Robicheaux and Foxsong. Again, he said, "He's going to come home, Miss Augusta."

She nodded, keeping her gaze down-turned, and Sam flicked the reins to go home. 

When they returned to Foxsong that evening, they learned Mrs. Robicheaux had gone to bed before dinner complaining of a backache, and Mammy hadn't been able to get her to touch a dinner tray. Miss Augusta's faced washed of color, and she wordlessly disappeared into Mrs. Robicheaux’s room, where she stayed for the rest of the night.

* * *

_23 March 1863_

_My dearest husband,_

 

_At the beginning of February, Beau had been more subdued than usual, wanting to lay on me all day instead of bounce around, but it wasn't until I was getting him ready for bed that I noticed little red patches under his arms and across his chest. He told me his throat had been hurting all day. Then I looked at Ginny and found her cheeks bright red but mouth completely white. I thought my heart would stop right then. The only doctor we could get out to us was old man Jarreau two days later. I wouldn't have trusted him any other time, but by then, Beau and Ginny, along with a few of my nieces and nephews, were bed-bound with rashes and sore throats; I didn't need him to tell me it was scarlet fever._

_Our poor babies. There was nothing anyone could do to get Ginny in bed, she wanted to bed held the whole time, but Beau bore the brunt of it. He wore a pair of your thick woolen socks on his hands for a few days to keep from scratching, and his fever rose so high he became delirious. It was terrifying to watch his wide eyes stare at horrors only he could see and then call out for me in panic. I rocked and rocked and rocked them in my wicker chair more than I did when they were infants, wiping their sweaty heads and kissing their little hands, trying so hard not to cry when they were finally able to sleep. I don't think I left the nursery or slept the whole week until Mammy summoned Mattie, who all but bullied me into Ginny’s bed for a few hours. Then Beau was having another episode._

_Now they're mostly recovered, still a bit weak, but out of bed and playing parts of the day. I know I should burn their clothes and bed sheets, but I'm afraid that if I do, I'll have a handful of naked children running around. I'm not sure we have enough fabric anymore to make even little Solomon a new shirt or pair of britches, and I'm not sure I could convince my ‘friend’ to smuggle me a bolt. It may be time to pull out that old loom at Saltmore. I can only imagine the mess we’d make trying to make our cotton into thread._

_I’d wanted to throw a Fat Tuesday ball like we used to have until the children got sick. Thank goodness, I suppose, the fever hit before we'd slaughtered the fat hog I'd been wanting to keep. I know Sam thought I'd lost my mind when I told him about the ball, but he was going to help me anyway._

_I'm selfishly glad Mammy and Sam have stayed here. Most of the field hands ran off after New Year's, thanks to Mr. Lincoln, so I suppose this means we won't get in any kind of haul this year. I have my nephews working in the garden mostly, but I may make them cut sugar with the few remaining hands. I don't know who will take our crop if we get one, or even if it would be profitable. But Goody, I don't feel like worrying about that now._

_These past few weeks, I've been sitting with your mother nearly constantly. Salome or Mammy relieve me sometimes, but it makes me nervous not to be with her. At first I thought the fever had hit her too, but she keeps complaining that her back aches, and it's all I can do to get her to eat. For the life of me, I can't figure how a backache equates to no appetite. I've written Val a few times to come stay for a while, though Sacha was home at Christmas too and she's expecting now and has been sick herself. Poor thing, I can sympathize with that, but I do wish she would make a trip. It's not so far._

_It's been surprisingly quiet around the house. Sal and Ruth stick close to my side, Ruth because Sam told her to and Sal, to be perfectly honest, I think to keep Oceane at bay. Sal is more crotchety than normal, but that makes me laugh as opposed to Ana’s nagging or Oceane in general; she's been such a brat since you left that you'd think she was thirteen instead of thirty-something. These past couple of months have been so dreary, between sickness and Mr. Lincoln and winter, and you absolutely lit up the house at Christmas. I miss you terribly. I miss you more than I can possibly say, more than I could have thought possible before Christmas._

 

_Devotedly,_

_You Gus_

* * *

It had only taken two years for Goodnight to be able to push away the guilt at rummaging through a dead man's belongings.

The first few times, he'd told himself it was all right because this was the enemy. Now, though, the trick didn't work. These men weren't his enemies; his family had come from Acadia, and the likelihood that he was related to some man out here was greater than none. These men probably hadn't wanted to fight anymore than he had, and they’d had people back home they’d probably wanted to see again but never would. They deserved a funeral with a burial next to their family, not a hurried dump into a mass grave, and they deserved more than having their possessions looted from their still-warm bodies by a no-good Johnny Reb. But that's what they got.

Finding nothing of use on the one man, Goodnight moved to the next. He was a private, newly equipped. His canteen was full of water, and his faultless haversack contained two new pairs of wool socks and a shirt, about Goodnight's size, without the shoulder worn out. All he wanted was a bit of paper, but he would take a new haversack, canteen, and clothes.

In the front pocket of the haversack, Goodnight found a miniature, which he put in the man's breast pocket after a moment of thought, and an old telegram. He pocketed the telegram until he got back to camp, where he scratched out the message on the front and turned the card over. This was what he got for once taking his paper supply for granted.

_11 May 1863_

_Ma Vie,_

 

_Jackson died yesterday, shot by his own men, and if that isn't a metaphor for the Confederacy, I don't know what is. I wish we'd raise our white flag, but I know we won't. Lee plans to invade the North again. After our last attempt, I sincerely don't want to see how this will turn out. We're better off going back to our homes with our tails between our legs than a repeat of Sharpsburg._

_You mustn't think poorly of me for scavenging a bit of paper. I wanted to write you so badly, and if this is how I must do so, then so be it. I shall have to learn to make my writing smaller if this is how I am to write you. What a sorry letter this is, though. If I find a bit more paper, I shall continue my thoughts, but know they are all about you._

 

_Madly,_

_Goody_  

* * *

_29 June 1863_

 

_Goody, I don't think I've ever been more frightened in my life._

_I was finishing up the laundry before dinner, Ginny swinging on the porch and Beau hunting bugs and Sam splitting wood, when Othello went to baying. Sam could see around the house from where he was, and he stopped, squinting, and said, “Miss Augusta, looks like we've got company.” And then Oceane came flying out the back door screaming, “Yankees, Augusta, the Yankees are coming!”_

_Well I slipped my rings to Sam, ran upstairs, and grabbed what you’d given me before you left. Oceane was still screaming when I came back downstairs, so I told her to shut up. With my heart beating so fast, I just couldn't think with her hollering like that. I never knew how good it would feel to say that though._

_I thought my heart stopped completely as I went out the front door. Without a care in the world, Beau was wandering out with Othello by his side to meet them, and I almost screamed until I saw Sam running to grab him. There were three of them total, though one was the only threats it seemed because one of them held his arm close and the other, blood dripping down his temple, slumped over his horse._

_“Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?” I asked, smiling as best I could, but Beau had scared me something good, and the pocket around my waist was heavy._

_“_ We had a bit of an accident. Our horses got spooked by a snake a ways up the road,” one man said _._ He was petite, dark-haired and clean-shaven with soft dark eyes.

“You've got to be careful around here, we've got cottonmouths,” Augusta told him. Under any other circumstances, she would have trusted him immediately, but the blue coat on his back made her wary. They had obviously had an accident, but their blue coats…

There was blood dripping down the side of one man’s face.

Where had her good breeding gone? Any respectable person would have hauled the injured inside and seen to them right away, and here she was contemplating what to do based on the color of their coats. With her neck heating slightly, Augusta took a deep breath, offering, “Your friends there look like they could use some help. Why don't you hop on down and I'll get you cleaned up?”

“We'd be eternally thankful,” said the petite man with a dip of his head. He dismounted, and Augusta helped his bloody friend off his own horse.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a fantastic schedule going in the beginning, and now I feel terrible for abandoning it. In my defense, I had almost all of this done...and then I went to New Orleans. If you've never been, you need to go. It was incredibly surreal, and I fell totally in love. Like cried-when-I-left love. So, yeah, I kinda didn't work on this much while I was there. But now I'm home and determined to finish this thing.
> 
> Augusta: June 1863-January 1864  
> Billy: Two days before, then one day before the final fight, 1879

“Augusta,” Mathilde said slowly, running her finger over the crease in the door to the liquor cabinet. Augusta hummed in response, tearing her thread with her teeth, unladylike, but it was only Mathilde and she had no clue where she'd put her scissors. They were seated in the library, the only place in the house besides Augusta's room where her sisters had not invaded; in fact, Theodore was the only other person besides Beau or Ginny who ever came in, and that was only to ask her about Goodnight.

Mathilde had brought bandages to roll for the hospital, but she hadn't touched them since she'd arrived. Conversationally, she said, “Men love getting drunk, you know. Have you ever considered what it's like?”

“No. Sometimes at balls my head would start to feel funny, and I didn't like it. Goody didn't either, he was always irritable when he woke up in the mornings. Would you mind doing your work?”

Pulling a face, Mathilde frowned at Augusta but sat down next to her on the high-backed sofa anyway, picking up one of the rolls and rolls of bandages. “You're a bore, Aggie.”

“I am not,” Augusta said, hinting at a laugh in her voice, but she didn't quite feel like laughing. She felt like she had become a bore, perpetually sewing or gardening or nursing. The only quiet time she had was what she spent with her children, and it never seemed to be enough. They filled her with energy, which seemingly disappeared the moment she parted from them, leaving her exhausted and anxious. The only thing she wanted now was a good nap and a good book.

“Well, I know, but I don't want to work,” Mathilde said, promptly tossing aside her bandages again. “I want to go for a long ride or play pétanque or something besides _work_. And anyways, it's too hot to work. I hate summer.”

Augusta put down her needle and fabric. What she wouldn't give to lose herself in a book or spend the day icing cookies. Her back ached and her hands were rough, and her plain calico dress was ugly. She knew she didn't smile nearly as often, and half of her smiles only came from second-thought, but she offered Mathilde part of one. “Me too, Mattie.”

“Let's get drunk,” Mathilde said simply.

Augusta considered it for a moment. When the men got drunk, they got raucously happy, boisterous and giddy. That seemed like a long-forgotten feeling, and she wondered what happened after her head began to buzz. Men loved being drunk; Ames, Micah, every single one of the Miller boys, they’d always had a drink in hand, and they were some of the most fun people in New Orleans, carefree and laughing. Remembering them as they had been before the war, a whiskey tumbler in one hand, a cigar in the other, chasing after a lovely belle—it almost made Augusta want to guzzle the whole cabinet.

Augusta didn't think if she started drinking that she'd be able to stop.

But what would happen when Goodnight came home to an empty liquor cabinet? He'd laugh, of course, when she told him she'd drunk it with Mathilde, but then what? Goodnight thought she could do no wrong, but what would he possibly think when he found out his wife drank liquor to get by? She would be crowning jewel of the Evercreech girls, the lady of the Robicheaux house turned into a sot, topping even Oceane’s antics.

Slowly Augusta shook her head and dropped her eyes back to her sewing. “Oh, Mattie, I couldn’t. How would I explain it to Goodnight?”

“Augusta Robicheaux, you could hack up everyone in New Orleans and all he would do is shrug and scamper along after you,” Mathilde laughed with a shake of her own head.

Augusta opened her mouth to argue, but she was cut short by the front door banging open and instead exchanged a glance with Mathilde. Someone scurried into the hall, and Oceane’s voice rang out, “You Verrets never had any manners, did you? No wonder Augusta is such good friends—”

“Oh, get outta my way,” came the sobbed reply, followed by, from Oceane, “Why, I never…”

“That's Minnie,” Mathilde said, hushed, face blanching, and she rose from the sofa to go to the door. Augusta’s own heart quickened, recognizing that it was indeed Minerva’s voice, but she had no idea why Minerva would be there; she'd only ever come over to call on Valentine, besides when she'd come to parties or women’s meetings. Mathilde peered into the hall, only to back into the library once more with Minerva nearly bowling over her. “Minnie, honey, what—”

“Augusta, oh, Augusta,” Minerva cried, flinging herself down at Augusta’s feet and burying her face in the folds of Augusta’s skirts.

Augusta’s hands automatically set about to petting Minerva’s hair, fingers moving in slow, feathery strokes, more for herself than Minerva. Minerva didn't cry, none of the Verrets cried, yet here she was, sobbing into Augusta’s skirts, and Augusta had no clue what to do. She was more frightened than anything of what Minerva could say—oh, _oh_ , suppose she had just gotten word Micah had been killed.

“Minnie, dear, what's the matter,” Augusta asked when she found her voice, inwardly praying for it to not be Micah, anything but Micah.

Minerva turned her eyes, red and swollen, up to Augusta, snot leaking from her nose, and the motherly part of Augusta urged her to wipe Minerva’s face with her apron. This wasn't Minerva, dainty little Minerva Verret who, against the belief of her sisters and armed only with her wiles and Verret blood, had turned the head of wild Micah Magee; this was a girl who had grown up too suddenly and had been knocked off her feet from the impact. “Oh, Augusta, I've just come from the Castex place.”

“Val—Valentine,” Augusta whispered, her heart freezing. _Not Val, please not Val, please don't make me have to write that letter._ She was sorry she'd wished for it to be anything but Micah. Goodnight had other comrades, but he didn't have another sister. “Minnie, is she—”

“She gave birth.”

“She wasn't due until at least September. You're wrong, it's too—" 

Minerva’s shaking head, her eyes squeezed shut tightly against another sob, cut off Mathilde, who flattened her back against the doorjamb and grabbed hold of the frame, looking like she wanted nothing more than to sink into the wall. Augusta felt her own face slacken without hearing the full story, but she didn't feel how her jaw then tightened, squaring for yet another battle. She brushed away a bit of Minerva's fair hair, hoping it would urged her to continue, which it did.

“You know how she'd been sick. She said you were always sick when you were expecting and it wasn't a problem, but I went to check on her, since we're both alone, you know. She went to bed yesterday morning not long after breakfast. And then she got to yelling for me, and there was nothing I could do. There's no doctor around except for old man Jarreau, and he's near twenty miles from her. Augusta, there was nothing I could do,” Minerva sniffled, hiding her face in Augusta’s skirts once more.

For once, Augusta wished she wasn't the Mrs. Robicheaux. She didn't want to be the one the city turned to for guidance and strength, or even fashion, for that matter. She didn't want more burdens pushed onto her shoulder when she was already crumpling under the weight of the ones she had. She wanted to be Miss Augusta, who spent her days with a book in her hands and her husband’s head in her lap while they watched their horde of children play in the sun. She wanted to tuck her children into bed and retire to her own bedroom to have her husband help her from her dress. She wanted to crawl under the covers and let him pet her while they talked quietly instead of sleeping, his presence more warming than their quilts, his gentle voice and breathing more comforting than a mother's lullaby.

Augusta closed her eyes, attempting to gather her wits, and when she opened them again, Mathilde was watching her like she would observe a soldier in the hospital, with pity and wariness. Clenching the hand that wasn’t occupied with Minerva’s hair, Augusta frowned at the top of the other woman’s head. She needed her to move; she needed to tell her mother-in-law, and she had a letter to Goodnight to write, and all she wanted to do was break down like Minerva.

* * *

 _8 July 1863_   
_  
_ Ma Vie,

 

_Not having heard from you in a great while—and I assure you I know that is not from your effort but the irregularities in the post—I did not know what you would like to hear but whether I am dead or alive. So here I am. I am enjoying good health at present, as is Micah, if you should care about that. We have had an awful march and a terrible battle, and a great may of our boys were killed or wounded but I escaped without a scratch. Those redheaded twins from Georgia that I told you about at the beginning of the war, they were both killed in Pennsylvania. What a shame, too. One was engaged to a girl back home, and the other was still stuck on the fiancée’s sister, who sounds a bit too much like Oceane for my likes. They were a pair of wild country boys, but they were good at heart, full of fun. I miss them._

_It is a miracle that we were not all killed or wounded. We were in the thickest of the fight, holding a charge from the Billy Yanks a half-mile through a fire of grape and canister. Our regiment lost a hundred men in ten minutes, and our company had eight killed and fourteen wounded._

_The first day, we swept the Billy Yanks out of the fields to the north and west, but we couldn't get the two hills to the south. Reinforcements arrived on both sides the next day, though we still lacked near 20,000 men to the opposition. That afternoon of the second day was the bloodiest part of the battle. At 2 p.m., we opened on them with over a hundred cannons. They lay flat on their faces for hours. The air was filled with shell bursting in every direction. That night and the next day we retreated, leaving our dead and wounded on the field. I went over the field. Every conceivable wound that can be thought of was there. There was so many wounded that it was impossible to attend to all of them. Some of them lay two days in a drenching rain. It is beyond the power of me to describe a battle field. Such a sight I never wish to see again, yet I know now how inevitable it is, for I know that as long as I walk off the field, I shall walk back onto it again._

_Word has spread that Grant finally took Vicksburg, and I fear so greatly for you. Now it shall be near impossible to carry our letters, among other things, but darling, how I treasure our letters, the every curve of your writing, the dots of your i’s that are always off-kilter no matter how neat your letters; how I wish to have your words tattooed across my body if only to have them always._

_As summer grows, and more time away passes, I cannot keep you off my mind. This is the time when I should take my morning coffee with you on the porch swing, just as the sun is rising, and when I should hear childish shouts from the yard. I can only imagine Beau’s delight at the lightning bugs, how he laughs and claps while they dance. I can see Ginny in the yard with him, smiling at his antics but not partaking in his merriment. They are beautiful, Augusta, but nothing can ever compare to the sight of you beneath the willow tree. When we married, I never once thought I would feel again the longing to have you in my arms, but it has become my strongest desire._  

_My darling, how I long to quell it. I shall quell it._

 

_Madly,_

_Goody_

* * *

Goodnight has spent his afternoon with the other six, arming the town and doing their best to prepare for the fight. It won’t be enough, and he knows when this is over, it’ll be a picture he’s seen too many times before: bodies in the field, bodies in the road, bodies piled on other bloody bodies. Women are going to be without husbands, children are going to be without fathers, and if he’s being completely honest, it’ll be a battle all for naught, just as it always has been, just as it always will be. These are good people, he knows, but good people are always the ones who suffer the most.

As he strides down the dusty street of Rose Creek, having taken a walk in attempt to clear his head, his boots feel too heavy, and he wants to lie down and not get back up, which he figures is what will happen—if he stays. His boots feel too heavy, and his shoulders feel too heavy, and last night, as he laid awake in bed with his closest friend by his side, he heard an owl right outside his window, and Lord God Almighty, if that didn’t feel like the night before Sharpsburg, he reckons nothing ever will.

Their employer is making her way back into town with a rifle in hand, and Goodnight can’t help but chuckle under his breath until he sees red eyes and a streaky face; Southern men never could handle crying women, not that Goodnight had any practice with them. He beelines to her, offering an elbow. “Allow me to escort you to supper, Mrs. Cullen.”

“I don't need your pity, Mr. Robicheaux,” Emma snaps, just as well as Salome could have, looking ready to either throttle him or stalk away. Fire burns in more places than just her hair, he thinks, and he smiles at the spirit. She swipes furiously at her eyes.

“My pity, Mrs. Cullen? You have none of it,” he says, catching her eye. She glances at him warily. “I offer my condolences for your late husband, but my pity is reserved for those too weak of character to do anything with their grief, and that is rarely women. You, Mrs. Cullen, are not one of them. See, when you've been around as long and much as I have, you learn that, contrary to popular belief, men are not the dominant sex. Women are rarely worth anyone's pity.”

Emma Cullen purses her lips and looks at him with perfectly discerning blue eyes. It's shocking, perhaps too much, how she favors his least favorite sister-in-law, and it makes him sick having her study him. She radiates the personality of Salome, if Salome had been forced into the West and sought revenge for Dorian. Hearing whispers of a past life behind him, he rolls his shoulders and reaches for his flask.

“You lost someone?” She's just as discerning, had Salome ever cared to involve herself in another’s business.

“I lost everyone,” he whispers, emptying his flask of whiskey to get himself through the conversation that has suddenly come too close to home. He has no interest in speaking of that.

“Did you fight?” She wants him to confirm that she'd done the right thing. Perhaps even the fame of Goodnight Robicheaux preceded him to the fair Mrs. Cullen’s ears and she too has been duped. But Goodnight Robicheaux, the real Goodnight Robicheaux, has long since given up the gift of doing the right thing.

Goodnight looks at her for a long time. “I did. It was called the War of Northern Aggression.”

Out of alcohol, he tips the flask back against his mouth anyway, wondering how he can make a getaway. He doesn't want to talk about this with her, and at the moment, he wishes he hadn't talked about it with Billy. He runs his fingers over the fleur-di-lis on his flask and hurries up the steps to the hotel with a quick nod of his head, a sickly remembrance of a once great bow, saying, “But I don't think we really have time for my woes. Last time I told them, it took me about two years to get them all out.”

* * *

_Your mother is so very upset about it, and it’s only made her worse. Her appetite has disappeared altogether, and she’s wasting away. Not that I can’t understand why. I don’t know how I should ever cope without Ginny._

_I told you the most terrible thing had happened when my sisters came to Foxsong, but that does not compare to the most recent turn of events._

_My week to nurse, I had been in the city with Mathilde when the roll came out. She held on tight as I read off the names, passing first Abellard, Pajud, and—with a sigh of relief—Robicheaux. Mathilde squealed when I said Robinson, but I had to keep going. And then both of us caught our breaths, and we couldn’t speak. I had no idea what I was supposed to do._

_Descending upon me like the plague they are, they knew something was wrong the moment I set foot in the door. Ana and Oceane huddled around and scanned the list, and when they saw it too, they turned to Sal slowly, not even Oceane making a sound. I don't think Sal realized she was even reaching for the roll._

_Oh, Goody, my beautiful sister, my poor, beautiful sister. She didn't say a word when she read it, just crumpled the paper in her grip. She went about the evening like usual and tucked the children in like nothing had happened. So practical, Salome is. I always thought that perhaps she had a heart, but watching her then, I thought I was wrong and that she was just as cold and unfeeling as everyone thought she was; that she had not truly loved Dorian, had not had any feelings towards him whatsoever. But that night, as I passed by her room after putting our own children to bed, I heard the strangest sound coming from behind her door. I knocked, and when she didn't answer, I opened it just enough to peek in._

_There she was, face down across the bed with her shoulders heaving._

_I never imagined I would ever hold my sobbing sister in my arms, Goody, I never imagined that she would clutch at my skirts and scream while I petted her hair. To my knowledge, Sal has cried less than I have. I do not think her eyes have ever been swollen from grief, nor have her cheeks known the streaks of tears. But she cried nearly half the night, and I woke the next morning with my body conformed to hers as she sniffled._

_My heart broke that night, Goody, and it broke again when Posie, her two younger siblings hiding behind her, came to me and asked what was wrong with their mama. Sal stayed in her room the entire day, and the next she emerged weary but beautiful. She took her children close to her and told them about Dorian._

_Since then, it isn't like I have my Sal at all. Whatever has caused this change, I am grateful for the friend but saddened at the same time to see my sister becoming so different. She's never been friendly, but she's never been reclusive either. When she isn't working, she roams about, rocking Solomon close to her, alone except for him. My heart breaks for her, Goody._

_Even still, I cannot shake the guilt that plagues me. I went to Richmond to bring Ames home, but I can’t make it to Pennsylvania to fetch Dorian, and Sal is my own blood. And moreover, I couldn't stop the relief that it was Dorian and not you, nor the despair that perhaps…perhaps it could have been Julien. I thought to myself, ‘Why did it have to be Salome? Surely Oceane is more deserving!’ Goody, I feel so sick. How could I ever betray my sisters like that? When I think about how it could have been me and not Sal, I find that I am disgusted in myself that I should ever wish it happening on anyone. Oh, Goody, please come home. I feel so lost, and I need you to help me._

_These things come in threes. First Val, now Dorian. I don’t think I can bear the third, I really don't. How I wish so desperately I had good news for you, but I fear it is all terrible. I am sorry._

_The only light is the hope that you are returning. I cling to this hope, my only lifeline, and the possibility that I may see you soon. Lord, how I am thankful for it._

_Il y a longtemps que je t'aime._

 

_Devotedly,_

_Your Gus_

* * *

The paper trembling in his grasp, Goodnight swipes his hand over his face. Home, it seemed, was becoming more and more like a battlefield.

With a smile, Micah looked up from his own letter, but his face sobered when he saw Goodnight. His eyes ran once, twice over Goodnight before he put a hand on his shoulder, asking tentatively, “Goody? How ya doin’?”

How was he doing? How could he possibly answer that when his sister was gone? He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said to her. It must have been just before the war started, when they were preparing Louisiana’s troops, discussing who would foot which bills, the Castexes giving their horses to the men without, the Robicheauxes preparing to feed the troops. Had his last words been about the war? He couldn’t remember, and, pushing past the sick churning in his stomach, he answered Micah with, “Dorian…Dorian Saucier is dead. Gettysburg.”

“Jesus,” Micah cursed, shaking his head, his shoulders slumping. “There goes another one. Ames, Warner and Noel Miller, Alec and Mo Jarreau, now Dorian. At this rate, there won't be any boys from the parish left.”

“Salome isn't taking it well,” Goodnight said, trying to focus on Salome, Augusta, anything but Valentine. At this rate, there wouldn't be _anyone_ from the parish left.

Valentine, his baby sister, his Valkyrie from Venus. He had learned to dance with her, and he'd given her away at her wedding, and now she was dead from a child she'd once said she didn't want. After all these years had passed, had she wanted it yet? He had barely seen to her since she'd married, he had no idea if she'd been happy. They'd competed during Mardi Gras to throw the better ball, and she'd come for dinner on occasion, but he hadn't seen her when he'd gone home for Christmas. Now he wouldn't see her again.

“Val’s dead too. During childbirth,” Goodnight whispered, the realization slowly seeping in.

“Val—Valentine? Oh, Goody, I'm so sorry. Val was something else. She was a beautiful lady, one of the sweetest I'd ever met.”

Beautiful absolutely, but Valentine had been as sweet as vinegar. Goodnight smothered his laugh in his palm, afraid if he let out that emotion then they'd all come out. It was bad enough that Valentine was gone without Micah being so sincere and consoling. Micah Magee wasn’t soft or sweet, he was drunk and rough and a New Orleanian. Soon enough, if Micah was soft and Mathilde was sad and Augusta was lifeless and everyone else was dead, there would be no semblance of their old life.

If he made it out of the war, if he stood a chance of feeling like himself again, Goodnight was going to need something close to what life had been like before the war. Before he spent days flush against a rock or tree, being shelled by cannons and rifles and trying to stammer a prayer, trying to cry out the Lord’s name but only finding one: Augusta.

He spent the hours of battle using her image to clear his mind of fear, the way her head tipped back when she laughed, how she looked with her eyes closed while she rocked their children, who were more intent on watching their mother sleep than sleeping themselves. He imagined she was in front of him, her body pressing into his with each pull of the trigger, and that he wasn't holding a gun but covering her ears from the sound. At night, he kept nightmares at bay by thinking of her and the way she melted into him on evenings when she was exhausted.

If he could get home to his little girl and sparkling son and magnificent wife, he could be all right. If he could get home to his family, they could put each other back together again.

Something in the way Micah was watching him told Goodnight he was thinking the same thing.

* * *

A dusty carriage rattles down the street of Rose Creek.

Goodnight is nearly bursting with excitement. This feels like the New Orleans of his youth, when he'd wait for Augusta to alight from the red Evercreech carriage, but somewhere inside him, a flame of fear sparks. Though he can't wait to see her, something is wrong. As soon as the carriage clatters to a jerky stop, Goodnight, ignoring the wish for a Southern driver over a wild Westerner, lunges for the door and throws it open.

And there she is, all smiles and gaiety, her tight curls bouncing as she hops onto the step. Goodnight doesn't wait a second before he has her in his arms, twirling her around. He has his arms around her waist, his face pressed into that wonderful inky black hair that is forever escaping its net, and his heart feels so tight that it hurts. Even though his eyes are filled with tears, hers sparkle brightly in that way that had so captivated him, her big, bright green eyes. Her dress is the very same color as her dancing eyes, even more beautiful than he remembers.  
  
She is here with him. Augusta, his Augusta, she is here and beautiful and heartbreaking. His mouth keeps trying to say too many things at once: _I love you, oh, ma vie, I love you; fellas, come meet my wife; I have missed you for so long._  
  
_Gus, I need you to get out of here._  
  
The last one chokes out all his other poetic greetings, but she can't leave, not when she's just now gotten here. She can't leave before she's seen Sam again, before she's met Mrs. Cullen and agreed that she looks just like Oceane, before she's met the other men, before she's met that asshole Faraday and put him in his place. Before she's met Billy. She'll love Billy. He loves Billy and knows she will too.  
  
He has so many things he needs to say. Keeping her pressed firmly against him, Goodnight uses his other hand to cup her cheek in his palm, her lovely round cheeks, and rubs his thumb under her eye. He hopes she can hear just how anguished he is when he says, "Darlin', I'm so sorry."  
  
"Oh, Goody, sweetheart, you have no reason to be. We're together now, and that's all I've wanted," she gushes, laughing gently.  
  
She kisses him squarely on the lips, sighing against his mouth, and without meaning to, Goodnight whimpers, more out of surmounting fear than desire. They're together and that's all he's wanted too, but she needs to get back in the carriage, where she's away and safe.  
  
Augusta has one hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, the other resting lightly on his chest, and she has that look on her face, serene, dreamlike, utterly content. He's seen this look before, and in the past years has wished so desperately for it that he's ached, and he aches now. He wants to keep it on her face and linger in her presence and feel her with him, but his fear is building into panic. Goodnight takes her hands in his with the full intention of kissing her knuckles and tucking her into the carriage safely.  
  
Why he needs her to leave, he doesn't know; he wants her to stay so badly that he would throw himself into the fire too if she could just be with him in this moment, just long enough for his hundreds of questions and confessions. But there's something telling him to leave, to get away from him, cast him aside like he deserves—anything to save herself. Her little hands feel heavy in his like he isn't holding her hands at all. Yes, he's holding something, but it's not her hands.  
  
And then there's a single bang, and he watches a sight he's seen so many times—there's red blooming across the green fabric of her bodice but this, this is different. This isn't the flat torso of a hardened soldier but rather the soft, curved bosom of a wife and mother, a breast which has nursed his very blood. In her eyes, there isn't the resigned look of a soldier who knows he has met his fate but the betrayal of one who thought the world of him; unthinkable pain and unimaginable surprise, both brimming in eyes that had once been a source of solace, eyes that had once been so full of life but now—heartbreakingly void.  
  
Goodnight yells her name as she crumples to the ground in front of him. He lurches towards her, but another shot has him scrambling backwards. He glances up towards the source of the gunfire, to the bell tower at the end of the street. There's a man at the top, with a wide-brimmed hat and two tiny dots sparkling in the sun on either side of his chest. It's happened all over again, he thinks, that she's bleeding out and it's his fault.  
  
When he turns back to Augusta, he doesn't find the heap of skirts and black curls that he'd expected. He hesitatingly reaches out a hand and rolls over the sleek, compact body of Billy.

* * *

“Aunt Augusta,” came a cry from the stairs, followed by the thundering of many feet. “Mama! Aunt Augusta, Aunt Augusta!”

Summoning all her patience, Augusta sighed and rose from her seat by Mrs. Robicheaux’s bed, ready to remind her nieces and nephews that they needed to be quiet around her resting mother-in-law, but before she could do so, Theodore, breathless and followed by Posie and Beau, threw open the bedroom door, panting, “Aunt Augusta, come quick—”

“Yankees,” Oceane shrieked from downstairs, followed by a scream from Anastasie.

Augusta’s heart stopped, and all thoughts of reprimanding them disappeared. The Yankees had already turned the Labelles’ Crescent Grove into ashes and looted the Degarmo house. If they stayed in New Orleans, Augusta wouldn’t have minded them half as much, but they kept creeping closer and closer to Foxsong, going up and down the river as they shelled plantation after plantation.

Crossing the room, she ran a hand over Theodore’s cheek as she passed and took Beau by the hand. Ginny stood in the hall, her lower lip trembling, arms outstretched to her mother. Augusta snatched her up, making soothing noises without realizing she was doing so, and checked her reflection in the hall mirror. Her hair wasn’t so wild after spending most of the day sitting with Mrs. Robicheaux, and her dress was presentable enough. She dropped Beau’s hand only long enough to tuck away a few stray curls and pinch her cheeks before she scurried to meet her sisters.

Oceane didn’t let her reach the bottom floor before she’d caught her by the bodice, shaking Augusta and Ginny and causing Beau to shrink behind Augusta’s skirts. “Augusta, Augusta, the Yankees are here!”

“Turn me loose,” Augusta snarled, swatting away Oceane’s hand with more fervor than she’d ever shown, and Oceane flinched away like she’d been burned. Under any other circumstances, she would have felt guilty and immediately apologized for acting so much like Salome, but when Yankees were coming and it was Oceane who was shaking her, Augusta didn’t care. Instead, as she brushed by and onto the front porch, she couldn’t help but think, _Oceane deserves a bit more than a shaking._

When she stepped off the porch, she flashed the upcoming soldiers as warm a smile as possible.

“Why, hey there, fellas,” she called as demurely as she could, hoping with all her might that they wouldn’t do anything that could make her have to lie. “Augusta’s my name, Augusta Robicheaux. What can I do for you today?”

Augusta glanced into the faces of the soldiers, totaling seven, finding nothing but hard determination in the faces of all but one, the lieutenant in the front, a tall, lanky man with a trembling ruddy mustache that reminded her of her father. As she told him her name, he took on an expression of surprise, and possibly guilt, repeating, “You said your name was Robicheaux?”

“Yessir,” Augusta said with as much gusto as possible, fear that he’d heard of Goodnight creeping into her stomach.

“Well, Mrs. Robicheaux, this is a surprise. We had no idea this was your place,” said the lieutenant while behind him, his men grumbled. They must have heard of Goodnight. After a long, tense moment of silence, the lieutenant swung down from his horse and dropped into an awkward bow. “Mrs. Robicheaux, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lieutenant James Addington, and these are my men. We've heard a great deal about your family, Mrs. Robicheaux.”

“Oh, Mrs. Robicheaux is my mother-in-law. Call me Augusta, or Miss Augusta, however you please. But it’s a hot one today. Why don’t you come on in and I’ll get you something to drink? Supper won’t be too much longer, and it'll be no trouble, not trouble at all, to set a few more plates,” Augusta offered, shifting Ginny on her hip. He was going to be civil. If he would be civil, she could confuse him.

The lieutenant shifted his feet as he thought, and behind him, his men continued to whisper. Augusta wanted to fidget with him, but after living with Oceane for years, she knew better than to show any sign of nervousness. He jerked his head toward the house, sending Augusta’s blood cold. _Leave the house alone, please leave the house alone._ “You look plenty occupied, and we wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” Augusta gushed, feeling like her knees would buckle any moment from her sudden relief. She glanced over her shoulder to find nearly everyone in the house gathered on the porch. “Now, just hop on down and come on in.”

* * *

Even Salome had looked horror-struck when the Yankees followed Augusta to the house.

Her sisters had shrunk away as they passed, and Augusta’s own heart had threatened to beat out of her chest, but she'd kept her head high, back straight. “Keep your mouths shut,” she had hissed at her sisters, showing the men to the parlor.

“Would you care for music? Sal, you can play us a ditty, can't you,” Augusta had asked once they were seated, thinking Salome was the most reliable. Salome had stood speechless for a moment before she crossed to the piano, hips swaying, chin up, keeping the soldiers in awe. Thank goodness for Salome’s coolness. Augusta had rang for Mammy to bring in a tea tray. “Do any of you sing?”

If she could get them to start talking, keeping them talking would be no problem. Mrs. Evercreech had impressed upon her daughters the lesson that the best way to make men fall in love was to let them talk about themselves, a lesson that was likely the only reason her eldest three daughters had husbands. Augusta didn't want them to fall in love, but she did need their affection.

When dinner was announced, Augusta had pulled aside her sisters. “If you three think you're such catches, you'd best put your charms to use and help me. Do whatever you did to catch your husbands.”

Following their baby sister’s lead, the Evercreech sisters became as charming as possible. Anastasie had made herself girlish, meek and silly, in strict opposition to her head-strong, self-assured, nagging self. Salome, losing most of her coolness, had batted her lovely, heavily-lidded eyes and casted shy smiles towards the ground whenever one of the men said something they thought was clever. And Oceane—anyone would have thought she truly was trying to catch a husband, the way she tittered and flirted, showing no signs of a fit or faint; of course, she also had quite the crowd around her. The Evercreech girls had been known for their beauty, and beautiful they were.

“Oh, Augusta, do tell us a story,” Anastasie had begged once they'd moved into the parlor again, which started the cry of, “a story, a story, a ghost story!” by the entire family, the children having lost their wariness at the adults’ ease.

“Oh, no, these gentlemen don't want to hear a little ol’ story from me,” Augusta had dismissed with a wave. “I'm sure they're tired.”

“Mrs. Robicheaux, you have quite the reputation around the city, and, if you're agreeable, we'd be honored to hear one,” Lieutenant Addington had said. With his stomach full and his pipe tucked in his mouth, sprawled out on the high-backed chair, he’d reminded her of Ames, easy and always hankering for a good story. Her heart had twinged at his memory, but she'd swallowed her sentimentality.

Now Augusta was situated on the sofa, arranging her skirts just so to keep the audience in suspense as long as she could while she thought of just what story to tell them. Everyone loved a good ghost story, and though she had plenty that could send chills up spines and bring tears to the eyes, she felt they all needed a good smile. It was impossible to keep a smile off her face as the Yankees gathered closer, interests piqued at the Mrs. Robicheaux settling in for one of her famed stories, preparing to uphold or dismiss the rumors they had heard from soldiers in the hospitals. Clearing her voice quietly, Augusta began.

“Sometimes, there are things on this earth that are just too evil to talk about,” Augusta began, her gaze pausing on Oceane only long enough for her sisters and oldest nieces and nephews to notice. She smiled sweetly, twisting her shoulders in a perfect pantomime of Oceane, and continued, “Now, if it’s a living thing, and it’s got ears and hears its name, it might just come running to see what people wants with it. Tonight I want you to think of a thing so evil, so horrendous, so—”

Holding her chin in her hand, Augusta frowned thoughtfully and screwed up her mouth. She made as if to speak a few times before she held her hand down toward the floor, level with the sofa cushions. “Well, it’s about this big, and its backside’s a bit like a wild dog, and its frontside’s a bit like a hog, and it’s got a green slithery tongue like a snake, and when you’ve got a wild dog in the back and a hog in the front, you’ve got a...well, you’ve got a wog.”

At this, the children laughed, and a few of the soldiers grunted, exchanging looks between themselves. Any man who had spent any length of time in the hospital knew of Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux’s tall tales and had likely been entertained by one at some point, and if they left the hospital, they went back to their comrades and told them stories of the most fantastic weaver in the shape of a little black-haired woman. Could this, a woman with a story about a _wog_ , really be the storyteller they’d heard of?

Augusta put her hands on her hips, feigning hurt. “Now fellas, I suppose it’s because you’re from up north, but around here, wogs aren’t funny business. This wog’s job is to get rid of the wicked children of the world. I don’t mean wicked children like those who want to stay up past their bedtime, I mean those children who are just plain evil. And around here, we have two of them that are just that: the Lalaurie boys, Pierre and Bernard. Twins they were, and these boys were so evil, why, one time they tied the shoelaces of Widow Delacroix to her rocking chair, and when that old lady went to stand up, she went to rocking back and forth and went head-over-teakettle down the front porch. They once set the outhouse on fire and kicked it over—with their daddy in it.”

While the men snickered, Ginny sucked in a little breath, her eyes wide, mouth puckered into a circle, perhaps dumbfounded on how anyone could do such a terrible thing. _My sweet baby,_ Augusta thought, wanting to pull Ginny onto her lap, but she kept on with her story. “Well the boys got to hearing that a wog had been spotted, and they knew it was coming for them, so they got to planning. But, you see, there’s a difference in being smart and being smart-alecky. That first night, they sat up and waited for it, and sure enough, that green tongue went to slithering up under the door. Ol’ Pierre just reached over with the fire tongs and dropped a lump of coal on it. That tongue rolled up and shot back out of that chink, and stars above, there was such a scream you wouldn’t know what to make of it. The wog went to running down to the creek to soak its tongue, but the boys knew they’d have to do something serious the next time.

“So when they heard the snorfling and snuffling the next night and the tongue poked through the window shutters, Bernard grabbed it quick and wrapped it around the bedpost, and Pierre ran outside and scooped the wog into a feed sack. Bernard let the tongue go, and it snapped back into the wog’s mouth. Those boys tied up the bag and threw it over their shoulder with the intention of taking it down to the river to drown it.”

Augusta grimaced, arching her eyebrows. “Well, they hadn’t tied the back too tight, and that tongue came to slithering out of the loop and wrapped around Bernard’s wrist. Pierre came around to smack the thing, and that’s when it bit him, and it didn’t take a whole lot of sense for the boys to know they were in a heap of trouble. They got to hollering, ‘Mama, Mama, help us!’

“Sure enough, there came a commotion from the cabin, and there came their mama running right for them with her best chicken hatchet. She brought that thing down right on the wog’s tongue, and the wog took off running and the tongue took off wriggling straight into the bayou. Those Lalaurie boys were just a laughing and carrying on until they looked into their mama’s face and found nothing but pure fury.”

By this point, any doubt in Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux’s storytelling abilities had long since disappeared, and soldiers and family alike stood in perfect stillness, their eyes rapt, breath held. There wasn’t a soul there who didn’t know the rage of a protective mother. Augusta held her head a bit higher as she leaned back against the sofa. “Pierre and Bernard learned three things that night. One was that their mama loved them. Number two was that she would do anything she could to protect them. And number three was that if their mama was mean enough to go after a wog, then maybe they just better settle their lives down.”

The room let out a collective breath, faces breaking into smiles and relief, and Augusta grinned to herself, satisfaction burning warmly inside her. The smiles, the joking chatter among themselves, this reminded her of parties of old; this was a summer night where she’d sat on the porch steps and held the attention of every guest in attendance and a Mardi Gras winter gathered around a fireplace as the evening was winding down. Yankees or not, it felt good to tell people a story.

The lieutenant seemed to be thinking the same thing. He’d remained quiet in his seat throughout the story, and when Augusta caught his eye, he beamed, snuffing out his cigar in the ashtray. With a jerk of his head, he rose to his feet. Immediately his men did the same.

Augusta followed them into the hall, praying with every ounce of her being that they would keep going out the door. If he took anything, let it be something she could make do without, and if they did anything, let it be something she could fix.  

“Mrs. Robicheaux,” said Lieutenant Addington, ushering his men onto the front porch. He licked his lips and glanced between his horse at the hitching post and his men standing in the hall, then to the children and finally Augusta. Her heart pounded, but she kept her prayer in her throat lest he change his mind. Surely, _surely,_ she had kept them away; please, God, let her have kept them away.

“Mrs. Robicheaux, I'm afraid I haven't been exactly truthful, but if you would, answer me this.” Augusta nodded for him to continue. “You wouldn’t happen to be married to Goodnight Robicheaux, would you?”

“That’s me, Mrs. Goodnight Robicheaux,” Augusta answered, a genuine smile creeping onto her face as it always did with Goodnight. .

A genuine smiled spread across the lieutenant’s face too. “It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am. I was in Charleston all those years ago with your husband. I’d heard he’d gotten married and lived around these parts, and I thought it just had to be you.”

“You know my husband,” Augusta asked incredulously, taking a step closer. She didn’t feel quite so guilty about giving Yankees their food if he knew Goodnight. Perhaps they would like to stay the night, there was plenty of room in the hayloft for them, anything to make him stay and talk about Goodnight.

“Everyone knows your husband, Mrs. Robicheaux,” Lieutenant Addington laughed, his eyes twinkling and making him seem instantly younger, even when he returned to seriousness. "Pardon my French, but he married a damned good woman, and it's a damned good shame we're on opposite sides of this thing."

“That doesn't sound like any French I've ever heard,” Augusta said, a blush heating her neck, stomach somersaulting. He'd brought up the war.

“I’m—how do you say it here—much obliged?” He added a terrible drawl to his words, but Augusta laughed anyway, half hysterically, half gratefully. A joke was a joke, and she was desperate to hear jokes these days. Yankee or not, he was gentlemanly enough, and if he smiled at Goodnight’s name, that couldn’t be a bad sign. He knew her husband. “I mean it, Mrs. Robicheaux. You’re a terribly kind woman, and I thank you for what you’ve done. It did my men some good to have feminine company and a real meal today.”

“Well that’s just what you do around here. Besides, somewhere out there is my husband, and I hope that a Yankee woman would take care of him if he needed it.”

“I hope a Yankee woman is taking care of him too, Mrs. Robicheaux.” The lieutenant jerked his head and looked past her to his men still lingering in the foyer. He waited for what felt like a long while before he said, “Let's go, boys. We'd overstayed our welcome the moment we set foot here.”

“Lieutenant,” one asked quietly, while the others hesitated to make their exit.

“I said let's go,” Lieutenant Addington barked, hoisting himself into the saddle with a skilled ease that reminded Augusta of a Southerner. He circled his horse as his men readied themselves.

 _Please, oh please, let them leave_ , Augusta thought. Let them leave and go back to New Orleans, and when they got there, let them keep going right on out of Louisiana, right back to wherever they’d come from.

“You boys take care, now,” Augusta said earnestly, a little tired, ready for every soldier to return home. As far as she knew, her husband was still safe, but she'd seen too many women in mourning, and she couldn't wish that on anyone, Yankee or not.

“I wish you the best, Miss Augusta,” he said, jerking his head once more. And with that, the Yankee lieutenant spurred his horse into action, and he and his men disappeared down the darkening drive, leaving Augusta with more relief than she ever thought possible. Again she thought her knees would buckle from relief, or exhaustion, and she inhaled a shaky breath, trying to steel her nerves.

“They're gone, Mama,” Ginny chirped excitedly, holding out her arms. Augusta hadn't even noticed her daughter joining her in the yard, but she picked her up on reflex, pressing a long kiss to her round cheek and smoothing her wild curls.

“Oh, baby, they're gone,” Augusta sighed. She allowed herself the moment of triumph before she kissed Ginny once more, quicker, and turned to go back into the house. She had children to put to bed and a mother-in-law to check on.

* * *

With a gasp, wheezing, Goodnight bolts upright in bed and immediately fumbles on the nightstand. He doesn’t find anything, since his flask rests in Billy’s vest and Billy has the cigarette case sitting on the bed beside him. Ready as ever, Billy lights a cigarette with a single flick of his wrist and offers it to Goodnight. In the fleeting moment when the match lights the room, Billy is met with terrified and terrifying eyes, wild with panic. Goodnight accepts the cigarette with one hand, using the back of his other to wipe off his perspiring forehead.

“Bad dream,” Billy asks quietly, knowing the answer.

“Just—it was just…Gus,” Goodnight shudders, closing his eyes against the effects of the opium. “‘We shook as our eyes and clinging fingers met once only to meet no more.’”

Goodnight takes another long drag of the cigarette. Smoke billows from his lips when he asks, “Did you hear her tonight, Billy? I heard her, I know I did. She was right here, must have been on that porch railing, Billy. I heard her screeching, Billy, I heard her. She’s followed us here.”

“There’s nothing there, Goody.” At first, Billy wonders who the ‘her’ in question is, but it’s only on the worst nights that he starts muttering about Marinette, and this is certainly one of the worst nights.

He hasn’t been this bad in years, Billy thinks. When they’d first met, he’d been skeletal, jumping at the slightest sound, too scared to let the fire get hardly big enough for cooking. He’d made for rotten company in the beginning, but then again, so had Billy. And gradually, with every misadventure, Billy had tempted out the shadow of whatever Goodnight had once been until he was almost lively, able to smile for real, instead of putting on a show only for the public; and gradually, with every misadventure that allowed Billy to tempt out the shadow of whatever he had once been, Goodnight had tempted out Billy’s shadow too.

Billy has a heavily-guarded heart that always yearns to help and care. Sometimes it’s done more harm to him than good to others, but he can’t get rid of his need. He’d met his match with Goodnight, and now he’s here, unable to leave these people. They need more help than Goodnight had, at least before they’d arrived in Rose Creek, and he’s offered his help with no thought of taking it back. It doesn’t help that he’s made friends—or the closest thing he’s had to friends other than Goodnight in longer than he remembers.

Tonight, the opium doesn’t seem to have the same effects as it usually does. Goodnight rubs his hands over his face, still tense with worry, his breaths coming in quick pants. When he finally raises his head, he gives Billy a long look, one that Billy can’t read. He’s coming apart and Billy wonders how he keeps himself so composed during the day. Maybe it’s just a matter of time until he can’t.

But then again, they only have two more days. It’s only a matter of time until he’ll have to make a choice. Billy knows what Goodnight will choose, and he knows what he will choose.

It’s always been a matter of time.

* * *

“If they push us into Georgia, there'll be no reason for us to be here,” Micah said, snapping nearby twigs in half. His face was dark even without the night light, and Goodnight could feel the need for a drink radiating off him.

“Not to be the bearer of bad news, Micah, but we're in Georgia,” Goodnight muttered, tossing his own twig into the fire. He hadn't expected Micah to be so blunt.

“Damn,” Micah hissed, shaking his head. “We might as well go home, Goody. Ain't no way we can beat them now. If we can't push them out of Tennessee, there's no way we can push them back to their own land.”

When Goodnight didn't reply, Micah tossed his twigs into the fire and scooted closer to its warmth. November in the Tennessee Valley was proving to be much colder than they'd anticipated, but the officers still didn't want any more fires than necessary. Drawing his knees to his chest, Micah leaned his chin on top of them and began to mutter a song.

' _Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam_ _  
_ _Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home_

Goodnight loved that song almost as much as he hated it. He'd sung it while Valentine played the piano a number of times, and now it seemed to be the only song the men wanted to sing. Though “Bonnie Blue Flag” reared its head every so often, and “Dixie” was popular after a victory, those seemed to be few and far between. Goodnight still preferred his ballad to Lorena whenever he felt down, as “Home” always made him feel worse. But even he couldn't deny it was beautiful, and he added his voice to Micah’s.

 _A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there_ _  
_ _Which seek thro' the world, is ne'er met elsewhere._

Their voices fell on the ears of their regiment, and, like always, other men joined in one by one until the company was singing together. Had any Yankees been within miles, they instantly known their location. Goodnight thought about this for a moment, but he kept singing. Maybe, if they were lucky, the Yankees would find them and shoot him. Just badly enough to let him leave.

 _An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain_   
_Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again_   
_The birds singing gaily that came at my call_   
_And gave me the peace of mind dearer than all_

_Home! Home!_   
_Sweet, sweet home!_   
_There's no place like home_ _  
_ There's no place like home!

* * *

“Beau, Ginny, you know how I love you,” Mrs. Robicheaux said in her quiet voice.

Augusta frowned at her words, disliking her mother-in-law’s tone, thin and brittle. She wanted to snatch her children away and hold them close, take them away from their grandmother, who reminded her too much of Goodnight's father after they'd come home from Paris. Forever complaining about a pain in her stomach and back, she was lethargic and cadaverous, her eyes and skin yellow. Augusta hated sitting in the room with her, waiting on the inevitable, but Goodnight loved her and she would never forgive herself for a bad ending.

She twisted her apron in her hands and wondered how she could get her children out of the room without upsetting anyone. “I’m a little chilly. _Belle-mère_ , would you like another blanket?”

“My girl, I am fine,” Mrs. Robicheaux said, somehow pointedly through her weak voice. She turned her head toward Augusta, who paused midway where she was rising from her seat and sank slowly back into it, feeling her nerves abandon her. “Open the curtains for me?”

“Yes ma’am,” Augusta breathed, immediately shooting to her feet and throwing open the curtains to reveal bare trees and brown fields. Winter was ever so bleak. In recent years, Goodnight often spoke of the snow in relation to winter, and Augusta, lingering at the window, couldn’t help but wish for even a faint coating, anything to make the world look unlike it was. She wished for the humming of spring and the blooming of flowers, the gentle wind to blow the branches of the oak outside the window. Anything to make the world unlike it was.

“Your grandaddy made this place glorious. Just like his daddy before him, and just like your daddy before you, Beau. And just like you will too. You with your daddy’s eyes,” Mrs. Robicheaux said, breaking Augusta from her thoughts. She turned to find her smiling not out the window, but at Beau, then to Ginny. “And you with your mama’s. How your daddy loves them.”

Augusta pressed the corner of her apron to her mouth as if muffling a shout. Beau and Ginny sat on their grandmother’s bed, blissfully and tragically unaware of what was happening, only their little brows almost knitted in worried confusion—oh, to be children and unknowing. But Augusta knew. She had sat by too many bedsides and watched this same scene not to know. Still, it never became any easier.

Mrs. Robicheaux sucked in a sharp breath, her face contorting, but through it she said, “Why don’t you two go play?”

“Yes, go play, baby,” Augusta agreed instantly. Beau and Ginny looked at her curiously but kissed their grandmother’s cheek and slid off the bed. Augusta followed them to the door, closing it behind them, leaving her alone with her mother-in-law.

“You were a good choice,” came Mrs. Robicheaux’s voice, the thinnest it had been yet. Augusta froze, unwilling to turn back to the bed. If only she could be somewhere else, if only she didn’t have to do this alone. But Valentine was dead, and Goodnight was so far away, and Augusta was very much alone.

“ _Belle-mère_ ,” Augusta whispered, throat tightening. When there was no reply, she shuddered a breath and wheeled around. On the bed, Mrs. Robicheaux lay perfectly still, face turned to the clear window. “ _Belle-mère?_ ”

Again there was no response. Lunging across the room, Augusta all but snatched her mother-in-law’s hand, but Mrs. Robicheaux didn’t move. Her eyes stayed focused on the window, the small smile never leaving her lips, even as Augusta began to shake her shoulder.

This couldn’t happen. Goodnight already had enough death in his life, watching his friends die every day. He’d lost Ames, he’d lost Valentine, he couldn’t lose his mother too, not when he wasn’t here to say his goodbyes. Fear swelled in Augusta’s chest. If he lost his mother, there would be nothing left, not with their loved ones gone, the slaves deserted, their crop in ruin. Her purpose these past few years had been to preserve their life, and it was slipping through her fingers. She would have had more luck trying to grab hold of the wind.

“ _Belle-mère? Belle-mère, Belle-mère_ ,” Augusta repeated with increasing volume, increasing hysterics, unable to control her mouth. Mrs. Robicheaux still did not move.

Panic seized her chest and made it tight, and her throat ached. She gasped, choking, her eyes prickling, and tightened her fist around the fabric of her mother-in-law’s nightgown, hoping somewhere inside that it would make her turn her head. But as Mrs. Robicheaux continued to lie still, Augusta felt her years of resolve crumble away, like the foundation of her beautiful life. She could see Goodnight’s face when he came home, his disappointment at their ruin, at her, at everything she'd let fall away.

Everything Augusta had been holding in came tumbling out at once in a dreamlike breakdown, one where she felt as though she was watching herself and knowing she was being foolish but not quite caring enough to stop. A sob broke free, and the prickling in her eyes turned to tears. She threw herself onto her mother-in-law, shoulders shaking, still crying out, “ _Belle-mère,_ _Belle-mère_ _!_ ” Vaguely she was aware of footsteps pounding up the stairs and the door behind her opening, but she did nothing to compose herself, did not wipe her face dry, did not let go of her mother-in-law. There was no use. She'd spent too long holding back grief, and the losses kept surmounting, and she couldn't see the end.

When hands gripped her shoulders, pulling back gently, a deep voice soothing, “There now, Miss Augusta,” she snagged hold of the bed covers. She knew, in the back of her mind, Sam had come running to her rescue just like always, and Mammy wouldn't be far behind. Sam pulled harder, and Augusta tightened her grip, knuckles whitening. It was a losing battle she was fighting. Just quiet enough that she could hear him over her repetition of “B _elle-mère_ ,” Sam muttered consoling words as he let go of her shoulders and wrapped his arms around her waist.

Augusta screamed when he pulled her away, dragging the sheet with her, and tried to force off his arms. Sam carried her out of the room and down the hall, past the rest of her gaping family, and through tear-filled eyes, she saw Ruth ushering her frightened children into the nursery. Ginny clinging to his shirt, Beau, his own eyes watering, reached out his hand and called, “Mama?”

Ruth pulled them into the room and closed the door, and Augusta collapsed into Sam just as he closed the door to her own room. Her son and daughter, her little children who thought the world of her, had seen her in hysterics. She had made them frightened, made them cry, when the past few years had been devoted to keeping them worry-free and safe.

Sam kept her upright as she swooned, and Augusta latched onto him, the only steady thing it felt like there was left in the world.

“Hush now, baby,” came Mammy's voice, and firm, gentle hands pried her from Sam. Augusta let herself relax into Mammy's touch, strong and sure and safe. Her hard-worked fingers pushed Augusta's hair away and played skillfully in her curls in a way only one other person could.

* * *

When Sam returned with Miss Mathilde, he found Miss Augusta lying on the bed with her head in his mother's lap, still sniffling with a few tears trickling down her cheeks from swollen eyes. He almost reeled from the sight. He’d never heard Miss Augusta scream like that, and judging from the silent, somber household, no one else had either. He was unaccustomed to seeing her as anything but vivacious, and he hoped this would be a fleeting moment. As his mother wiped at her charge’s face with her apron, he wondered what would ever pull her away from her baby Gussa.

Miss Mathilde, as unprepared for the situation as he, paused in the hall before she followed him into the room. “Augusta, how're you doing…”

“I'm sorry, Mattie. Sam didn't need to call for you,” Miss Augusta said dolefully, though she didn't make an effort to sit up. Miss Mathilde snickered and sat down next to his mother, reaching out to take Augusta’s hand.

“Honey, that dog won't hunt. I'm here now and you're stuck with me. And don't worry, we’re going to take care of this.” Turning to Sam, she asked, “Is there any wood?”

They’d run out of lumber months ago, the last of it going to the mending of the cattle fence at Saltmore Hall. He hadn’t told Miss Augusta to keep from worrying her. Now he licked his lips, unsure of coming clean. “I'll, uh..have to cut it myself, I believe.”

Miss Mathilde nodded, taking his answer at the surface, and blinked rapidly in thought. Almost as strange as a crying Miss Augusta was a serious Miss Mathilde. “I'll have to see about getting the crypt engraved. Augusta, I'll give you back the black taffeta if you want it. Who knows if it'll get through, but have you written to Goodnight?”

“I can't do it,” Miss Augusta groaned, finally sitting up. She twisted her own apron in her hands, keeping her eyes downcast, and whispered, “I can't tell him she's gone. I've written too many letters with that kind of news, and this is too much. I c-can't." 

With that, she launched into a fresh round of tears, covering her face in her apron. “I'm s-s-so s-sorry. I know—”

Sam opened his mouth to cut her off, but his mother beat him to it. “Hush, baby. You've done all you can. We’ll get you out of these clothes, and then you'll not get out of this bed until we say.”

“I'm going to run home and pack a trunk for the city, write the letter. Maybe that lieutenant will know how to get it to him quicker,” Miss Mathilde said, rising from the bed with a more serious expression than Sam had ever seen. Under her breath, she added to herself, “And bring the black taffeta. Put a notice in the paper. Lieutenant Adams, Ansley, Acksworth…oh, I don't know, one of those English names…I'll be back tonight, Augusta.”

“I need to check on the children,” Miss Augusta said when she had gone, but Sam shot her a look that froze her in her tracks. She shrank back, ducking her head as her ears burned brightly. She laid her head back on his mother's lap. “I'll stay in bed.”

* * *

“Do you want to see them,” Goodnight says out loud after a moment, after he's been looking at Billy in that strange way. 

Billy doesn't want to see them, not really. It makes him ache to hear Goodnight talk of them with that tone, so full of love and disgrace at the same time, so wistful, and he hates the look Goodnight gets after he's finished speaking, when his expression fades from happy to shamed. But from the desperation in his voice, which after so many years he can hear as clearly as Goodnight still hears the war, Billy hears the other man begging, _Please, let me show them to you._

Billy swallows hard and sees Goodnight waiting like a dog who knows he could be kicked at any second. He doesn't want to see how Goodnight wallows in his sorrow, which is perhaps just another way he seeks atonement for his sins, by dwelling on things that he believes should have been. He doesn't want to see what Goodnight has to show him, but he doesn't waste a moment before he answers, “Of course,” and crosses the little space to rest on the edge of the bed next to Goodnight, who stands to rummage about in the pocket of his own vest.

From somewhere deep inside his vest, Goodnight pulls out a little tin, battered and somewhat scorched, and removes the lid with the utmost care. Billy takes a moment to wonder how Goodnight had kept this from him after all this time but doesn't say a word, and Goodnight peels away two flaps of purple cloth, picking up a little stack of photographs. “I, uh…well, goddamn it, it's been almost two years, and I still haven't shown these to you.”

 _Two years,_ Billy mentally scoffs, _try ten years._

“This is her on the night of the Fat Tuesday ball. We were engaged by then, you remember.” The older man’s face is already streaking with tears, but he's smiling at his worn photographs.

Billy holds the picture that Goodnight offers him gingerly, a feeling in his gut telling him that if he so much as breathes on it that there'll be hell to pay, a fight he just might not win. The woman in it is just as Goodnight described: big lively eyes and head full of thick black curls. She was lovely, gazing at the camera with a mouth that seemed as though she was trying hard not to laugh, and Billy understands why Goodnight had fallen for her. He trades the picture for the one Goodnight is holding out. “And this is our wedding day.”

“She's pretty, Goody.” And she was, in a simple white dress and ornate veil, hanging onto the arm of a much younger Goodnight, here clean-shaven and even more elaborately dressed.

Goodnight nods, smiling even wider than he has in a long while, and for a moment, Billy is genuinely happy for his friend. Seeing his eyes filled with pride, listening to him speak, Billy knows Goodnight had been a good husband and father. “Oh, she was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. And this—this was the day Beau was christened. She's smiling in every single photograph. We'd tell her not to smile, and she'd just say, ‘I have to, I'm just too happy.’ We never could get a serious expression on her face, Beau neither. He loved his mama.

“And this is Ginny, Genevieve Aurelie. I told you she looked just like her mama, she was Augusta’s spitting image, like Augusta reborn. I'll tell you what, Augusta was the slowest eater I have ever known. When we first met, I could finish my meal before it even looked like she made a dent in hers, it took a good bit of training before I could pace myself off of her. Then Ginny came out looking just like her mama, and after that first time that Gus fed her for a good hour, I said to her, “Gus, we might as well just name her Augusta too, whether you like it or not.”

He lingers over the last one, losing his happy smile. His voice breaks. “This was…excuse me, this was that last time I was home, back in sixty-four. This was my gift from Augusta. There she is with Beau, of course he had a hand on her skirt, and I'm holding Ginny.”

“You’re all smiling here.”

Billy can sense Goodnight is on the verge of tears again, and he wonders how long it's been since he's let them come to life like this. A wave of guilt washes over him at the fact that, even after all of their time and talks of years past, he’d never once asked Goody about family until he'd made nothing more than a passing remark. “When Augusta smiled, we all smiled, and I was so glad to finally be with her again that I couldn’t stop myself. We were so happy, and I ruined it.”

“You didn't ruin it. There were lots of things that went wrong.”

“I left.” Goodnight covers his face, and Billy watches as the older man’s shoulders finally begin to shake. He takes the tin from Goodnight's hand and carefully places the photographs back inside before putting the tin on the nightstand, then rests his arm around Goodnight's shoulders. “I abandoned them. She begged me not to go, and I didn’t listen. I left them there three times. We had the money, we could have run, I could have saved them. I have killed so many men. I have been washed by the blood of so many men, Billy, but nothing can compare to the blood of your wife and children.”

“There were lots of things,” Billy insists, not sure if he's right or not. “I don't think she would blame you.”

Goodnight leans his head back and gazes at the ceiling. “She wouldn't. She believed in everything I did, stood by me for everything. She wouldn't blame me, but I do.”

“I think she would want you to forgive yourself.”

“Dammit, Billy, are you sure you haven't met?” Goodnight sighs. “I know she would. But if a man had killed your wife, your son and daughter, you wouldn't want to forgive him either.”

Billy wants to say something, but for once he has no clue what to do. “If you’d once asked me that day what I thought I’d be doing on our twentieth anniversary, I would have told you that I’d be swinging on the back porch with my wife under my arm after a day of long, lazy lovemaking. And by our thirtieth, we’d be able to sit on that swing with a grandchild or two. But here I am in some California hotel two thousand miles away from home.”

After that, the room is quiet. An owl hoots outside. At the sound, Goodnight leans over, his elbows on his knees, and buries his face in his upturned palms. Billy goes from having one arm slung over Goodnight's shoulders to having both arms wrapped around him, Goodnight sobbing into his chest, all facades stripped away. He closes his eyes with pain at Goodnight’s pain and rests his chin on his shoulder.

They've evolved over the years with each passing town. They'd been business partners in Texas to friends New Mexico. They'd been comrades after that hullabaloo in Colorado and the closest thing Billy would ever again have to stability after the winter in Arizona. They've evolved so much over the years that Billy doesn't know what to call them at this point besides anything more than a mess.

* * *

When Goodnight received a letter from New Orleans, his stomach dropped at the handwriting. He could pick out Augusta’s neat, elegant letters from a lineup if he had to, after the hours he'd spent memorizing her every word, but this was not hers. It was wobbly, almost scripted, done by a hand that was usually too hurried to be bothered by neatness, penmanship that would have made any mother want to pull out her hair. He'd seen this writing before in letters to Ames, some paragraphs in this same wobbly writing, some in indecipherable letters that only Ames could read with the biggest smile on his face.

Micah’s own face clouded when he saw the address, and he noted, “That's not Augusta.”

“It's Mathilde,” Goodnight said quietly, fingers slipping as he tried to open the letter. Wrinkled and torn, it had already been opened, and the date read from nearly two months ago. He scanned its contents, doing his best to read Mathilde’s writing, her choppy, abbreviated sentences. After Augusta’s letters and his time home last Christmas, it brought no surprising news—disheartening news, but not surprising—until he reached the end.

_A is unwell. Not sick, but unwell. Need you here. Mammy, Sam, Sal, I don't know what to do. A went into hysterics when mother passed, fretful now. Oceane and Ana pains. I hate them._

_Come help A. I couldn't bear life without her._

Augusta couldn't have gone into hysterics. He'd only ever seen her cry once, and even that hadn't been hysterical. Augusta was never anything but cool, put-together. She would have been a grande dame even without her Robicheaux name. But if Mathilde had written him instead of Augusta, then surely there was something wrong. Ames had often griped about Mathilde’s correspondence, though, since he'd received as many letters as Goodnight, that had likely been more for the sake of griping; now here she was writing her first letter to Goodnight. 

“It's not Minnie, is it,” Micah asked when Goodnight had been staring at the letter for far too long.

“No, it's Gus—Augusta.”

“Tell me she isn't gone too,” Micah pleaded, sounding defeated.

“No, she’s...Mathilde says she’s unwell,” was all Goodnight offered. He wouldn’t have known what to tell Micah if he’d wanted, he had no clue how to make sense of any of it. Augusta couldn't be unwell, whatever it meant.

“She's a good woman. Minnie says she has an iron grip on the city, Confederates and Yankees do whatever she wants. Yankees don't know it though,” Micah laughed, hollow and faraway. He swallowed hard, licking his lips. “We have good women in New Orleans. Have some real bad ones too, but I swear we have the best women around.”

He looked at Goodnight for a long time, silent, before he said, “Goody. I know you and Augusta are…strange, but I want to go home as much as you do. And if…if you want to go home, I'll come with you.”

“And desert?”

“Men leave every day. No one would notice two more,” was all Micah said.

No one would notice, indeed. If it had been that simple, Goodnight thought he would have left long ago, before his boots were holey and his clothes threadbare and his stomach empty. He would have left before he'd made it into every single newspaper, when he wasn't known far and wide as the Angel of Death. Most of the men thought it was funny, or they were awestruck by a real Cajun, and a damn good shot at that, but the title held no magic to him. It had put a target on his back; every Billy Yank around wanted to be the one to hit the Goodnight Robicheaux, the Angel of Death. He couldn't go home without anyone wondering what had happened to him, and he couldn't go to New Orleans where he was known and revered. If he wanted to escape, he'd have to uproot his family from their ancestral home, the magnificent home that should one day be Beau’s, and take them far away. They would no longer be Robicheauxes, and they couldn't say their name was Evercreech either without eventually raising suspicions.

“We can't desert, Micah. Think about our reputations,” Goodnight said heavily, inching closer to the fire.

“Ah, damn our reputations. Do you know what I can't do?” Goodnight arched an eyebrow for him to continue. “I can't die here. I can't let them just dump me in a pit with a hundred other men and leave me out here. I'm supposed to die in New Orleans with my wife and be buried in a crypt with the rest of my family. And so are you. But if we stay out here, a pit is where we'll end up.”

“You won't be buried in a pit,” Goodnight promised, more to reassure himself. He'd watched as officers and medics dumped body after bloody body into the pits after battle, where their wives and mothers and children would likely never find them, and it frightened him. He'd never given his burial site half a thought, but watching those unknown men be left behind, he couldn't help but fret over his own death. There was room in the crypt with his parents for Augusta and Beau and whatever woman he married. That was where he belonged in death—forever at Foxsong, forever with Augusta.

“You don't know that,” Micah scoffed, narrowing his eyes and turning away. He pulled a threadbare blanket tighter around his shoulders, not that it did any good, and as he did, his face softened from anger to wistful. “It'll be Mardi Gras sometime next month. February something or other, right?”

“Easter is the end of March,” Goodnight confirmed. What he wouldn’t give for a proper Mardi Gras celebration.

“I miss the parties, and Fat Tuesday, and the balls you'd throw…” Micah grinned suddenly. “No one has balls like a Robicheaux.”

* * *

The little town is bustling with life and preparations for their fight. It’s a better sight than Goodnight has seen yet in this place, but he doesn’t like it. Ignorant fools, the lot of them. Some of these men said they had fought in the war, and still they go marching into battle with no other thought in their mind. How could they ever think they could win? There’s never a winner in war.

As he’s helping hoist the bell into the tower, Goodnight catches a glance over the railing of Billy accepting water from a little girl. Billy will never say it, but Goodnight knows Billy is delighted by the offer. He’ll never say it, but Billy is just as much a sap as Goodnight. Goodnight smiles to himself at the thought, and then at Billy’s momentary grin at the exiting girl, before the pounding of hooves send the town into silence.

Red Harvest thunders into the street. From his vantage point at the top of the church, Goodnight can’t hear what he’s saying, but he sees how no one moves. He sees their gloomy faces and knows exactly what news Red Harvest has brought. It's a sight he's seen before, only this time the man delivering the news isn't clad in ragged gray or butternut. It’s then that he remembers his dream from the night before, and all the others he’s had since they’ve arrived; it’s more than he’s had altogether in months.

If he hadn’t become so accustomed to functioning in public like a normal member of society, Goodnight thinks he would likely curl himself into a ball. In the New Orleanian days of his youth, Goodnight had been kept as far away from voodoo as possible, as any good Catholic boy of wealth, but he hadn’t been entirely sheltered from it. The cruel, vengeful Marinette deals out justice with vicious violence. There had been an owl keeping him up before they’d gone into Sharpsburg, and there has been an owl outside his window since they arrived. She has come to give him what he deserves.

Goodnight raps his knuckles on the railing. This feels too much like 1861. None of these men can shoot worth a damn, and there's nothing he can do to help them. They're outnumbered something awful, sitting ducks waiting to be shot.

He had arrived in Rose Creek with a well-known name and a little pomp and circumstance, and now he's marching his lambs into the slaughter. Goodbye Ames, goodbye Billy. Goodbye Micah, goodbye Faraday. Goodbye Sam.

It's always goodbye to Sam.

He can't stay here. He almost didn't make it out of the last war, and he knows he doesn't have it in him to make it out of this one, knows that with absolute certainty.

But Billy—Goodnight has the sinking feeling that Billy will stay. Billy may not say much, but Goodnight knows that he's enjoyed the presence of these other men and that he likes them. It's probably lonely with Goodnight as his only companion; it's lonely for Goodnight, but that's only because he'd grown up surrounded by loved ones and had them snatched away. Even if Billy hadn't had that, he deserves more than just Goodnight. He deserves the laughter and companionship more than Goodnight ever will. And he can see in Billy's face that he believes in the reason they're here, even if that hadn't been why Goodnight or Sam came.

Yes, Billy will stay.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea it had been a month. I ended went to Gulfport two weeks ago, which is only an hour from New Orleans, so...be surprised I came home. This is way longer than I'd intended, but it made sense to me to cut it here.
> 
> Ma petite étoile-my little star  
> Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, ma vie, et je t'aimerai jusqu'à la fin des temps-I have loved you so long, my life, and I will love you until the end of time  
> Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai-I have loved you so long, I will never forget you
> 
> Dates:  
> New Orleans spans from April 1864-April 1865  
> Siege of Petersburg: June 1864-April 1865  
> Lee surrenders: Sunday, 9 April 1865  
> Easter Sunday was a week later on 16 April 1865

_3 April 1864_

_Goody,  
   
The hospitals are overcrowded now. They've always been crowded, but we're brimming full now. The Yankees have been going from the city to Shreveport along the river, and we're too vastly outnumbered. I can't move through their beds without brushing my skirts over soldiers, and when I come home in the evenings, I find there are streaks of blood all over the fabric, and I with no clue as to whom they belong. It's terribly disheartening to nurse nowadays (as if it wasn't disheartening before). Once the men were eager to recover so they could resume fighting for the Cause; now they lie in bed with vacant eyes, their bodies emaciated, their spirits prepared to die. It breaks my heart to nurse.  
   
Mattie is very good at keeping up the morale, surprisingly, and the soldiers love her. She has the stronger stomach than I (I always get sick or woozy), so we work together. She can treat their wounds and make them laugh while she does it, and I can tend to their other needs, their pillows, their mending, their cleaning. Mattie makes them laugh and I listen to them cry, but they take my hands and say “Thank you, Mrs. Robicheaux” so earnestly that I suppose I'm doing something right.  
   
As for Mattie, she has bothered me as of late, she and Sal, and Sam and Mammy and Ruth. They let me do less work now than when I was expecting, and it drives me mad. If I thought Sam had Ruth sticking close to me before, I was sorely wrong. She's always one step behind me, and how I haven't run her over, I have no idea. She's worse than Beau when it comes to clinging to my skirts. She hardly lets me do anything besides a bit of mending. There's nothing I want more than a good book, but if all I had to do was sit around the house, I fear I would go mad.  
   
Last week, after we'd celebrated his birthday, Theodore came into the library to talk as usual. He'd found another article about you in the newspaper to show me. You should see how animated he becomes, my quiet, stuttering boy (he's not mine, but from the way I love him, he might as well be). He thinks the absolute world of you, and I hate that Ana and Oceane have made him feel like he has to hide from them—and Ana his own mother. Perhaps that was why he chose me with whom to share his news. He was so bubbly and excited, and suddenly he grew reserved again as he said, “Aunt Augusta, now that I'm sixteen, I thought I could enlist.”  
   
I was climbing down the ladder when he told me that, and it surprised me so much that I slipped the last three rungs. I convinced him not to enlist, at least not until we could ask what you thought (and I know what you think). He agreed half-heartedly and left the room with his head hanging. I feel so guilty for disappointing him—he wants to be like you so very badly—and I know he came to me thinking he would get a better reaction from me than Ana, but I can't let him go. Ana would, but I can’t. I can't add him to the casualty list or even think of what it he will experience. He's too naive, too timid, to ever experience war, although I believe now that we were all too naive for war.  
   
I should hope Beau is never too scared to tell us things like that.  
   
It's been so lonely since your mother passed, and I miss her. I've been going to Mammy's cabin in the evenings again, though it feels so funny without your mother. She was my partner against my sisters. Now I have Sal, who is better than no one, I suppose. She still picks fights with Oceane like there's no tomorrow and makes me want to rip out my hair. I don't particularly care for Sal’s company sometimes. I catch her (and everyone else, for that matter) giving me strange looks, and it always makes my whole neck red.  
   
Oceane is slowly starting to isolate herself. I fear (can I fear this when it is such a good thing?) that Ana is beginning to grow fed up with Oceane too. Perhaps that is simply Ana, though; she never likes anything.  
   
I hear horses and men outside, and since my sisters haven't come screaming about Yankees, I suppose it's the commissary again. They make me weary. They know we have enough to feed ourselves and think that means we have enough to feed the Confederacy too. As if we haven’t had sweet potatoes for every meal this week. I hope Sam has hidden the cattle—last they came, we didn't get the pigs hidden in time, and they took the fat hog I'd been wanting to use at Easter.  
   
__Devotedly,  
Your Gus_  

* * *

Their regiment had stayed in Georgia only through the winter before they were forced back to Virginia on yet another long march. Having brought a new pair with him after he'd left Foxsong the previous Christmas, Goodnight's boots fared only slightly better than Micah’s, who had taken them off a Yankee boy after Gettysburg, but by the time they arrived in Virginia again, both pairs had holes in the bottoms and tears in the side. Their clothes were torn, Augusta's mending amounting to nothing more than a pile of beans, and Goodnight had done his haphazard best to sew it up with horsehair and a dull needle.  
   
Now they found themselves in Spotsylvania, not far from Richmond. At the moment, he and Micah were wandering about the outskirts of camp, hardtack in hand and stomach empty.  
   
“It's 1860,” Micah began, scowling at his biscuit. He turned his scowl up to Goodnight. “It's 1860. What is the strangest thing you would eat?”  
   
Goodnight thought for a moment. In Paris, he and Augusta had laughed at eating snails, and Augusta almost hadn't been able to stomach the calf’s head, both of which turned out to be surprisingly good. But neither of those were so strange, were they? “One of the men I knew in Charleston had family that had just arrived from England. When I dined with them, they served something called blood pudding. Boiled sausage with animal blood.”  
   
“I’d say that's right up there. I can't believe you and I are eating this waste.” Micah scoffed, a grin breaking across his haggard face. He shook his head. “Say what you will about them, but those Verret girls can cook. Have you ever tasted Minnie’s boudin?”  
   
“No, but I've had Mattie's jambalaya, and it's enough to make the bordello girls go running to the Ursuline.”  
   
“Oh, God, Mattie's jambalaya. What I wouldn't give for some of Mattie’s jambalaya. Or one of Augusta’s cakes. Or-or-or her beignets. Lord God Almighty, no one makes beignets like Augusta. I tell you what, when we get home, you and I are going to open up a restaurant,” Micah sighed.  
   
“And tell our wives they're going to cook all day? I'll take my chances with the Yankees,” Goodnight teased, but Micah wasn't listening.  
   
“We’ll open it down on St. Ann’s—how far’s that from you, about three miles—yeah, right there on St. Ann’s, just down the street from Jackson. Doesn't have to be big, but right there off the square. Paint it red and white, have some white columns all over the place, red chairs, a chandelier in the center. The Verret girls can make the meals, and Augusta can make the desserts, and hell, you and I can be waiters. We’ll be richer than we ever were planting.”  
   
“And fatter,” Goodnight added, imagining the scene with a watering mouth. It was a lovely and amusing, the thought of Mathilde and Minerva and Augusta all in aprons and puttering about the kitchen with bowls and spoons in their hands. Their service would probably be the slowest in the city because of how the women would play, of course always getting Micah and Goodnight in on it too. He thought of himself waiting tables ladened with Augusta’s sweets and smiled to himself; imagine, Goodnight and Augusta Robicheaux working at a restaurant.  
   
“We'd call it Ames’s. Ames’s Place,” Micah said with an air of finality, taking half the joy out of the thought as Goodnight remembered Ames, who had loved a good meal almost as much as his wife. Ames would have found it so hilarious they were working a restaurant that he wouldn't have hesitated to join in.  
   
“I'm just so goddamn hungry,” Micah added, going back to snarling at his hardtack. He picked out a few more maggots and broke off a clean piece.  
   
Micah was tougher than Goodnight, who felt his empty stomach churn whenever he saw something wriggling in his food—which wasn't terribly often, since they didn't eat terribly often. When his stomach was empty and growling, an occurrence that had been so rare in the old days, when he hadn't had food in days, when he was presented with something that he choked down with enough gagging to make a passerby think he was poisoned, Goodnight thought he was too spoiled. He'd never had that thought before since he'd never shied from hard work, but he knew beggars couldn't be fussy, and a beggar was exactly what he was.  
   
Sometimes he closed his eyes, hoping he'd picked out anything alive, and pretended he was swallowing boudin or, as Micah had salivated over, one of Augusta’s beignets. It didn't work more often than not, and more often than not he hadn't gotten everything alive out of his food, and with an irrational fear that his insides would become maggot-infested, he hacked and gagged the moment he felt it moving in his mouth. After he'd nearly thrown up every precious thing he'd had in his stomach, he would think about the magnificent spreads they'd had in Louisiana and pray he could have just one last Cajun supper.  

* * *

“Practice for your mama. How do you introduce yourself?”  
   
_“Bonjour monsieur. Je m’appelle Genevieve Aurelie Robicheaux. Comment vous appelez-vous?”_ Sam laughed at the little miss’s drawl giving way to impeccable French. Her proud, expectant face displayed an expression her mother wore when she’d been clever. Sam’s laughter made her smile swell, and she smartly chirped, _“Je suis très bon!”_  
   
_“Très bien, ma fille,”_ Miss Augusta said, sweeping onto the porch with not nearly as much vivacity as she'd once displayed. As she sank onto the swing next to Sam, her daughter reached for her, and Miss Augusta pulled her onto her lap, her eyes lighting up as she tucked her daughter into her arms. Sam wished she could spend all her days in the swing with her children if it meant she would keep that same look on her face instead of the tired, unhappy one that had taken over her easy features.  
   
Lazily drinking in the last bit of spring sun, they sat in silence while Sam pushed them back and forth, a breeze occasionally reaching them and playing with their loose clothes and hair just as lazily as the sun was bothering to set. When it was nearly dusk, the younger children shrieked about “flier-fies!” to which Miss Augusta, with a sleepy, faraway look, reminded them they were called fireflies.  
   
Sam had always enjoyed the summer. It was hot and hard, and even without the rain, he never felt dry, but there was something about summer nights that made the long days worth it. He liked the peaceful air that settled over the land, and he liked the evenings spent on the porch under the coloring of the sky into a fiery mix. Summer nights blurred until the whole season ran together into a seamless night, and each year was only distinguishable by memorable moments; that was the summer the Miller kitchen caught fire at the Independence Day barbecue, and that was the summer of Miss Salome and the Mobile gentleman.  
   
“Do you remember what you told me that one time, Sam? About what you wanted most in the world,” she asked, her gaze on her son in the yard dancing amid the fireflies but her tone suggesting she was far away. “You said you wanted to be able to ride wherever you wanted.”  
   
“It would be nice,” he said, nodding with remembrance. That had been the evening when he'd learned of her sneaking off, when she'd returned to the house in the late afternoon with a skip in her step and her smile bigger than usual. If anyone had bothered to pay any attention, she would have realized that she wasn’t half as sneaky as she thought.  
   
She hummed in reply and swung the foot that she didn't have tucked under her before sighing, “Sam, let's go somewhere.”  
   
“Where do you want to go?”  
   
“Oh, I don't know. Wherever you want to go will be fine with me. Just nowhere on the East Coast. Somewhere different. Like Utah or New Mexico. Or Kansas. Kansas.”  
   
“What do you have in Kansas,” Sam asked, feeling the corners of his lips pull back in a smile. He didn’t know what there was in Kansas besides fields upon flat fields. Used to the bustle of New Orleans, she would go stir crazy without an escape from the endless yellow expanse.   
   
Miss Augusta shrugged, keeping her gaze focused on the children playing in the yard, and encouraged her daughter to join them. She watched little black curls bounce down the stairs. “Hope.”  
   
“You've got hope here. You've got Miss Mathilde and your children. A good house. You've got enough investments to live off when the war is over. And when the war is over, your husband’s going to come walking down that drive.”  
   
At that, she turned her big eyes, droopy with unfamiliar sadness and ringed by dark circles, to him and shook her head. “I'm so afraid. That the war won’t end, that he won’t come walking down the drive. I can’t…My children, Sam. They're so beautiful, and I just want them to stay this way. Bellies full, faces happy, feet shod—oh, but they’re not horses. I want to see Beau go off to a university and Ginny the Mardi Gras Queen, and I want Goody to see that too, and I'm so scared it won't happen.”  
   
“Things will be just fine. Not like they were, but just fine. They'll stay like this, Miss Augusta.”

For a long while they sat like that, looking at each other and not speaking. Sam remembered the one summer of their childhood, when they’d sat in the hayloft with her books and endless amounts of papers. They’d poured over letters and words while sweat poured down their faces, and by the end of season, whichever year that had been, he’d been able to read nearly as well as she could. It was during a summer of their childhood that she began making up stories of her own, sometimes with wild plots, sometimes with wild characters, capable of making him laugh every time.

"You've always been older than you are. You've always acted like an old man, and it's always taken everything I've had to get you to play,” she said eventually, sounding much too old herself, her words brittle, but she offered him a genuine smile that warmed them.  
  
Sam shrugged, turning his eyes back to the children. "You're good at that."  
  
"You've been good to me, so I've been good to you, and that's the way the world should work." It was the way her world worked, and it was the way the world should work, but it didn't. Sam couldn't help but wonder what could have happened if the world did work that way, if there would have been a war or even so much tension between states and families. Maybe they should have voted Miss Augusta president and let her whip the country into shape; if they had let her remind them of their hearts, they could have kept their families together and prevented all the loss and pain of the past few years.  
   
As she turned away, he said again, softer but firmer, “They'll stay this way.”  
   
She didn't look at him, but for a fleeting moment, she took his hand and squeezed.  
   
Summers nights faded into summer days, and summer days blended together until only a few moments stood out against the humid hours. In the years to come, Sam would remember this moment, her children playing in the yard, a real smile desperately trying to break through her weariness, as the summer of Miss Augusta.

* * *

When sight of the oncoming Yankees had reached Petersburg, Virginia, and the enemy troops had been at their door, even the genius that was General Lee himself had been surprised at their arrival. It had taken them a full nine days before they’d made it to the city. Beauregard had been forced back and Jerusalem Plank captured, and for the past three months now, Union forces had been attempting to capture the remaining supply lines.  
   
Goodnight and Micah had been across town in search of some sort of entertainment when there’d come the rumbling of artillery and the footsteps of marching infantry, the jingle of harnesses that said the Union was ready to fight again, and the two men had gone sprinting in the opposite direction for their weapons. Soldiers ran past in defense of the town, lest it fall and give way to Richmond, and women and children shrieked in their hurry to take refuge indoors.  
   
With their rifles in hand, Goodnight and Micah panted on their way to the fray. Goodnight's muscles screamed for him to stop, to lie down and rest, and he thanked his every lucky star for his pumping adrenaline that kept him from doing just that. There were holes in his boots and nothing in his stomach, and if he was going to run anywhere, he wanted to run in the opposite direction.  
   
“What—that,” Micah panted as they broke out of the town, jerking his head toward something bring wheeled forward in the distance.  
   
A cannon, Goodnight almost said, but then he took a closer look. It was on two wheels like a cannon, and a long barrel jutted out, though the barrel was too thin. As it rolled to a stop, the artillerymen stuck something tall out of the top; no cannon was loaded from the top.  
   
The artilleryman on the left began to turn a crank.  
   
It almost sounded like the rumbling of a train, if the train had shot missiles out of it. It shuddered and clattered and followed that with the cracking and thudding of bullets hitting a target. Faster than anything they'd ever seen, men froze and fell swiftly to the ground in the way that had become so dishearteningly familiar. Hit, ground. Hit, ground. Around them, shouts of “Get down!” faintly resonated over the clatter of the machine.  
   
There was a grunt from Micah as he hit the ground hard, and Goodnight dropped ungracefully with his hands over his head, air disappearing his lungs when he didn’t catch himself. He pressed his face into the dirt and squeezed his eyes tightly. If only they'd been quicker, they could have reached the trenches. If they'd had better food, and more of it, they could have run faster. Now they were stuck with no shelter, and men more men had fallen from this single moment than all of Philippi, Big Bethel, and Hoke’s Run combined.  
   
How long he laid like that, breathing in dirt, quivering under the sound of the bullets, Goodnight had no idea, but eventually the sound stopped. He held his breath, waiting for it to start again, the silence that followed making the world eerily still. After a time, he hesitated to raise his eyes, tilting his chin up just enough to see. Bodies scattered the ground, and those who had been lucky enough to be in the trenches peeked over the edges.  
   
“I don't think that was a cannon,” Goodnight said hoarsely. When Micah didn't respond, Goodnight reached out to push on his shoulder. “And I’d say I much prefer a cannon to whatever that is.”  
   
Micah remained still.  
   
Goodnight raised his head off the ground completely, his heart pounding, afraid of what had happened, but Micah’s back rose and fell ever so faintly. _He's alive_ , Goodnight told himself as he dragged himself closer, too afraid to get too far off the ground. “Micah?”  
   
He rolled the other man onto his side to reveal a pained, ashen face, one he'd seen too often. A cry was frozen on his lips, but instead, he sighed a weak groan. “Minnie…”  
   
“You'll get home to her,” Goodnight said quickly, sitting up fully, unaware he was the only one doing so. He rolled Micah onto his back, revealing on his left ribs a wet stain so dark it was almost black. “Mic—”  
   
“Minnie,” Micah whispered again. “Tell…I'm sorry.”  
   
“I'm going to get you home, and then you can tell her you love her. How does that sound? I'll take you back to New Orleans. You can tell her yourself,” Goodnight said. He pressed a hand over Micah's ribs, knowing it would do no good, that it was already too late. Micah gave him what was probably a look of incredulity beneath his pain. “I will, I'll get you home.”

* * *

“I’m taking him home,” Goodnight said to the commanding officer who caught him tying the coffin with rope. With nothing available to buy, he still had a purse full of money that he hadn't spent, and he'd used a pretty penny on the disgraceful wooden box.  
   
“You don't have leave,” said the officer, as if it made any difference whether a man had leave or not at this point. For the past two years, men had disappeared in the spring for planting season and returned when their families were taken care of—men with more honor than he felt entitled to.  
   
“Give it to me, or don't. Either way, I'll be taking him back to New Orleans,” Goodnight said, his voice hard, his face hard, mind focused solely on his task. He had a coffin, he had a rope to tie it with. Now he needed a means of travel. He had to focus on these things and nothing else.  
   
The officer didn't object but instead jerked his head and stalked away.  
   
A means of travel would be hard to come by. Nearly every horse in the South had been taken by the commissary—or Yankee raids—and any left would likely be a nag that would be dead before he made it out of Virginia. He scrounged the city with no avail, in private stables and carriageways, until the sun had long set, and only then did he turn to the army. Even their horses were more or less skeletons, just as underfed as everything else in the Confederacy, but it was a horse, and a horse who could pull a cart for a few miles.  
   
He took all the rations he could find and left no money. The Confederacy could do this much for him.  
   
After the day of siege, the Yankees were quiet, allowing Goodnight to slip out of the city with as much ease as possible; he turned around here and diverted paths there, taking the longest way possible around what he thought were camps, anything to keep from being spotted or captured. By the time he'd put Petersburg behind him as reached the empty road, he was thankful for the distraction the Yankees had provided.  
   
The road before him stretched endlessly through the night, black and bleak, the sky clouded and obscuring any light that might have shone down. Crickets chirped around him, but he rumbled forward slowly, unwilling to push the nag too fat, his want to get home overpowering his need for rest. Somewhere in the distance screeched a vixen, and he struggled to smile at the sound; he wanted to smile so badly at the fox’s song, the little tribute to home, but it only hurt.  
   
Goodnight had thought it was like watching a fire dwindle out when Ames died, but with Micah, he realized the fire was still barely flickering. Ames had been a mere ember, the first to go, the first sign that their world was puttering out. Ames, Valentine, their mother, the parish boys, the loss of splendor in his clothes, the hunger in his body—all were dying embers of another time.  
   
But the fire still burned, and he kept his focus on that, lest he descend into the despair he felt welling inside him; there was still Augusta and the children, and Mathilde and Foxsong. The fire still burned, just barely, but it burned.

* * *

Knowing he'd never make it through Montgomery and Mobile, or through Jackson and Vicksburg, Goodnight set his path across the tops of Alabama and Mississippi with the intent to go south from Arkansas, then cut east before he passed Natchez. It was a path he never would have taken before the war, but he assumed there would be less opposition—not that he would draw too much attention with his single skeleton horse and buggy.  
   
Smoky Mountain nights were cold when all he had were the patchy, tattered clothes on his back, and he spent most of them shivering beneath the wagon. He had neither the means nor the courage to light a fire, and when it rained, he hoped the wind didn't blow. It usually did, and those nights, he whiled away the hours wet and shivering, awaiting the morning sun. It was petrifyingly dark at night, with no fire, no lamp, only the stars. He couldn’t see what was around him, be it a bear or wolf or Yankee—even the mountain men were just as bad; things crashed in the underbrush and hooted overhead, and when he was awake, he waited for them to come for him. And when he slept, he could only hear barked orders, choked screams, the damned clatter of the machine. Always that damned clatter. On those nights, he woke drenched not with rain but sweat, his teeth chattering from more than the cold, frantic eyes desperate for a focus. Goodnight had never been afraid of the dark, but he was now.  
   
By the time he'd made it to the edge of Tennessee, Goodnight had gone through all his rations and thought on three different occasions that the horse would die.   
   
Out of the mountains, the travel was easier. He didn't have to navigate mountainous passes, flicking his whip continually on the horse’s back to urge it upward and hoping with every ounce of his being the horse wouldn't make a wrong step; he'd tried not to think about what should happen if his horse died. He reached Memphis hungrier than he'd ever been and trying anything to keep his mind occupied on the right things: Foxsong, Augusta, the bells of St. Louis, jewels sparkling around ladies’ necks during Mardi Gras; he tried staging a one-man production for himself of Othello, and when he couldn't remember the lines in the second act, he gave up and began reciting all the poems he knew. He pictured himself on a checkered blanket with limbs from a willow blowing gently around him as he recited his lines, tracing circles into a palm and watching the loveliest eyes he'd ever known.  
   
His cargo, which had begun to smell after the first day, reeked, and he tried not to think about that either. He turned his gaze to the muddy waters of the Mississippi and thought of home.  
   
As he passed by a few farmhouses, he found himself looking for the grey-brown expanses of land that hinted at cotton fields. Sometimes all he found were fields of green, and sometimes it was only scorched earth. He turned his face away from the blackened ground and wondered if anyone lived in the houses. Doubtful, he kept going.   
   
When he’d been gone a little more than two weeks and thunder rolled overhead, Goodnight sighed, preparing himself for another soaked night. At the rate he was going, it would be a miracle if he reached home before November and even more of a miracle if he did so without pneumonia. He wanted to ask the rain to hold off, but he assumed he was already asking enough to simply arrive home alive. He flicked the reins with the hope of covering more ground before he had to stop.  
   
They crested a hill, bringing into sight a little log cabin no bigger than the Foxsong slave quarters, but as there was neither smoke coming from the chimney nor a light in the window, Goodnight flicked the reins again. There was a barn—or, rather, a shelter—where he could hitch the horse and wagon out of the rain, and he could spend the night dry indoors with perhaps a fire, even, if he was lucky. As he neared the cabin, he noticed six little white crosses behind the barn and thought nothing of them. He pulled the wagon under the shelter, tying the reins to the hitching post, and turned to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun.  
   
On the other end stood a woman, just younger than his mother would have been, her silvery hair pulled into a loose knot at her neck, dark eyes just as scared as he was. She clutched the little revolver like her life depended on it, and for all she knew, it probably did; it was a little silver revolver like he'd given Augusta, not nearly as shiny, looking as though it had seen better days. Hopefully Augusta’s looked the same as it had when he left.  
   
“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” Goodnight said, raising his hands to his shoulders. “Goodnight’s my name. I’d no idea you were here or I would have kept going, and I think I’ll keep going now, if you’d be so kind.”  
   
“What business do you have here,” she asked, attempting a harsh voice, but Goodnight heard the shake in it and saw it in her hand.  
   
“None whatsoever. I’m taking my friend here home. We’ve come all the way from Petersburg, and I only wished to have a bit of shelter from the storm.” He thought for a moment. Anything was better than weathering the rain on the road again. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d still like to stay right here for the night, under the wagon— _if_ that’s all right with you.”  
   
“What did you say your name was?”  
   
“Goodnight, Goodnight Robicheaux.”  
   
She mouthed his name. Slowly the gun lowered until it hung by her side in the folds of a calico skirt that had long ceased to be patterned. Her gaze softened just slightly until it became more of a wince than a scowl. “Well, sugar, my name’s Mary Whitaker. Why don't you come on in, and I'll see if I can't find something to eat.”

* * *

By the time they got inside, the wind had picked up and was howling against the windows, but the single low fire was a welcomed change. The cabin was even smaller on the inside, filled with well-worn wooden furniture, occupied mostly by the dining table, two rocking chairs by the fire, and a bed partitioned off by a curtain. A ladder on the far wall led to the loft overhead. True to her word, Mary Whitaker did find them something to eat. Albeit, it was nothing more than skimpy vegetable water, but she added a few herbs that made it taste heaps better than anything Goodnight could have imagined.  
   
“My wife can’t cook a lick, unless you count baking, in which case she’s the best goddamn—pardon my language, ma’am, been around only soldiers a long time, see—in which case she’s the best cook this side of the Mississippi. Cakes, pies, beignets, anything with sugar she can do, and lucky for her, we planted sugar. Her friends, they can cook when they must. Not that they have to very often, they have cooks of their own, or at least, they did before Lincoln did his emancipating. I think Mattie still has the one maid, and I know my wife has her mammy. She’s the scariest nurse you ever did meet. Not too big, but she’s fierce, all right. Not a soul at Foxsong argues with Mammy, except for Gus, of course, and that’s only because she can get her way. Why, I didn’t—I beg your pardon again, Mrs. Whitaker. I have a talent for talking, and sometimes I just get carried away. Don’t worry about offending me by telling me to hush, I get that plenty.”  
   
Mrs. Whitaker smiled from beneath her lashes, nearly the only reaction she'd given him since he came inside. Very softly, she said, “I don’t mind one bit, Mr. Robicheaux. Hasn’t been anyone besides myself around here in a good while, and it’s nice to hear another voice. Your family sounds nice.  
   
“I had five boys,” she added, dropping her eye and smile.  
   
Goodnight felt his smile fall from his face as well. She was speaking in past tense. In her tone, he could hear her begging him to ask about her sons. Hearing about more tragedy was the last thing he wanted to do, but she had fed him, and hopefully she would house him for the night. “Did they join the troops?”  
   
Looking at him fully for the first time since they'd sat down for dinner, a real smile lit up her weathered features. “Well…Jonah, my eldest, he went with the Union. He and Joel both were lost in Fredericksburg.”  
   
She gave a little breathy laugh at the end. _They probably shot each other, and isn't that plumb hilarious_ , Goodnight wanted to say in response, but he kept his comment to himself. It wasn't funny, but it was reality. Louisiana had been a split state too; odds were he'd fought against men he'd known his entire life.  
   
“Three of my sons died in Louisiana. One in New Orleans. John was shot at Lafourche Crossing and Jeremiah at Lafayette, but Jacob made it to a hospital in New Orleans…one of the nurses at the hospital clipped her hair for me. Sweet lady, she was.”  
   
“What was her name?” God almighty, if she said Augusta or Mathilde…  
   
“Oh, it was a gem—”  
   
“Opal Delacroix?”  
   
“That's it. Do you know her?”  
   
“Sure, sure. The Jarreau place is about halfway between us and my favorite sister-in-law. Opal's a sweet lady. Not enough sense God gave a June bug, but sweet enough.”  
   
They talked about his friends in New Orleans and her sons, and Goodnight taught her the proper way to say Lafayette, instead of her “Luh-fet.” They listened to the rain fall on the windows and sat by the fire, rocking slowly in the chairs, and when it had grown late enough, Goodnight climbed the ladder into the loft, trying not to think that this is where her five dead sons had slept in life. He reminded himself that he had a bed for the first time since he'd been at Foxsong, and he was asleep no sooner than he'd made himself comfortable on the straw mattress.  
   
In the morning, just before she’d showed him to the door, he left two gold coins on the table and said the most earnest thank-yous he'd ever uttered. Again keeping her head ducked, she blushed at his words, and her shoos out the door were half-hearted, which Goodnight understood. Company, and any company besides ragtag soldiers, would be eternally welcomed by the Robicheaux family if he had anything to say about it. He tipped his hat and bowed with a kiss to her knuckles and watched her teary eyes turn away, and when he dared a glance back, he saw her still looking after him.

* * *

Like the Evercreech sisters, the Verret girls had worn out the parish in their youth, though they had done so in opposite ways. The Verret girls had been loud, a bit silly, doing and saying as they pleased, not quite genteel but not so coarse that they hadn’t been seen fondly, and Minerva had been just like her older sisters. It came as a relief to the parishes when Valentine had taken Minerva under her wing, for perhaps docile little Valentine Robicheaux could finally influence one of the Verret girls, but Goodnight had merely laughed to himself when he’d first seen them together; Valentine would influence Minerva, and she would do it with such a sweet smile on her face that no one would ever suspect.  
   
Goodnight wondered if that was why it hurt so badly to ride up the lane to Fair Oaks. In the last years of their former life, he had spent days and nights at Fair Oaks, wooing his own wife and having Valentine, too young to attend balls, watch from the window; drinking well into the night but never to the point where his dancing was not perfect; smoking in the parlor while the ladies napped. He’d had Ames by his side and had laughed at Micah and the Miller boys across from them. He could remember how Augusta had looked when she’d first shown that slip of a clever tongue beneath the one of the Magees’ famed oaks. Had Valentine and Minerva had their own adventures and mishaps here like he had? Had they put their heads together while they were supposed to be napping and connived ways to woo their future husbands? Had Micah nearly choked when he asked Minerva to dance?  
   
Too caught up in his own doings, he would never know.  
   
A hound bayed when it heard him approaching, and Minerva came to the porch of the Creole house. From only halfway down the drive, he could see her hands going to her hips and knew she was squinting at him, and suddenly he didn’t want to continue. Suddenly he wanted to be back in Petersburg, listening to the clatter of the machine, lying face down on the ground; anything would be better than facing Minerva. He still had a quarter-mile that he could turn around, but though he didn't want to see Minerva’s face, he couldn't bring himself to turn around. He couldn’t bring himself to let Micah’s fear come true.  
   
“Goodnight,” she called when she recognized him. Tripping over her skirts, she bolted toward the left stairs and rushed to meet him before he'd stopped the wagon. She wore the brightest smile beneath messy Verret-blond hair, which she kept pushing from her face. “Goodnight Robicheaux, what are you doing here? Why, I just saw Augusta yesterday and she didn't say a thing about you being home. Vazey little ratbag, as Mattie would say. Goodnight—what's this?”  
  
As she neared the wagon, Minerva’s gaze fell to the box, and then her face fell as well. No matter how often he’d come to see Mathilde with that expression, Goodnight didn’t think he’d ever get used to the sight of crestfallen Verret girls, pain written across their features as clearly as the light of day. Her smile twisted into a grimace, and he watched her fight the corners of her mouth turning down. She gripped the side of the wagon tightly, squeezing her eyes shut with a shake of her head. She gasped, “Wh-where’s Micah?”  
  
Goodnight searched for beautiful words that would make everything better, but Minerva didn’t want to wait for them, demanding, “Where is my husband?”  
  
“Honey, all he wanted was to come home. I wasn’t going to keep him from you,” he began, stopping when Minerva’s face washed of color and she teetered. For a moment, Goodnight was afraid she would be sick or faint, but she held herself up with the side of the wagon. She squeezed her eyes together tighter, though it only served to push out the tears.  
  
“Help me get him in the house,” Minerva said through a held-back sob, “and then fetch Mattie.”  
  
Together they lugged the makeshift coffin up the stairs and onto the coffee table in the parlor, and no sooner had they put it down than she was shooing him out the door, insisting that he fetch her sister. When he looked over his shoulder, she was sinking to the ground.

* * *

Having sent Mathilde to Fair Oaks, Goodnight turned his sorry horse and wagon to Foxsong. He pushed the horse harder than ever, ready to see the house in all its splendor, shining bright white against the green of the fields; ready to collapse into a pile of skirts and have gentle hands fuss about him, making everything right. If the horse died now, then so be it. He could walk these last few miles, probably even run so long as he was running to big green eyes and a lively smile.  
  
Sure enough, the horse, mouth foaming and eyes rolling, stopped nearly three miles from the drive and refused to go any further. Goodnight patted its neck and promised to send someone after it—not that it would likely be for any good—and set it his path home. Three miles had never seemed so far.

But eventually he reached the break in the trees of Foxsong’s drive, only visible if one looked very closely. He picked up his pace. He wasn’t tired, not at all. He  
He could hear Oceane and Anastasie bickering in the garden, and to avoid them, he let himself in through the cellar door. It was cool inside, a little wet, and he noted how low their wine supply was. Upstairs, running feet and a cry of “Solomon!” let him know the children were in the house, but he saw no sign of them.  
  
Goodnight imagined Augusta finding him asleep in their bed. She would probably shriek and throw herself down next to him when she realized he wasn't a stranger, pressing kisses to his face and laughing behind tears eyes. It would bring the children running, and they could all be together. But when he turned the knob to his bedroom, he found it already occupied.

She’d taken off her basque against the heat of the Indian summer and lay only in her loosened corset and petticoats. From where she’d shifted, her snood had been skewed and now allowed her black curls to tumble free about her pillow and face, and though years had passed, Goodnight felt his hand drawn to it. He brushed a few away and let his knuckle linger against her cheek, those lovely round cheeks, now thinner and almost weary. He traced her lips, remembering how they felt against his, or on his own cheek in comfort or excitement. If she’d stepped off the Sistine ceiling, she couldn’t have been more splendid.  
   
His touch brought her eyes fluttering open, and she blinked at him in what he couldn't decide was sleepiness or confusion. Slowly, her hand reached out to his knee, and when she found he was real, she hurried to sit up, gasping, “Goody!”  
   
“ _Ma vie_ ,” he said just as breathlessly, in one move clutching her to him and completely tugging off her snood so that her curls tumbled down her back and onto his arms, tickling his face as he buried it in her neck. He was home, he was here with Augusta, he could hold her in his arms.  
   
Goodnight tilted her face back just enough that he could look at her. Tears threatened the edges of her big green eyes, which, paired with her thinned cheeks, now seemed entirely too large for her face. There were dark circles underneath, and he traced around them. She looked weary but infinitely better than he assumed he looked; at least, even with the commissary, she'd probably had a good meal a day and a bed to sleep in.  
   
Judging from her eyes sweeping over his face and her sad smile, Augusta was thinking the same thing. She brushed a bit of too-long hair from his eyes while he wiped at hers. “Oh. _Oh_ , Goody, sweetheart, you poor thing, you’re nothing but skin and bones. Help me into my dress and I’ll find you something to eat.”  
   
Rising from the bed, Augusta collected her dress and turned her back to Goodnight so he could tighten her corset. “Mammy was making gumbo for supper, but I’ll get you something sooner if I have to—whoo, not that tight, you already have me breathless enough! —if I have to whip it up myself, it can’t be any worse than what they’ve been feeding you. And my stars, we’ll get you—where are my slippers—oh, found them—we’ll get you shaved. Does anyone else know you’re here?”  
   
Goodnight was so intent on watching her putter about excitedly that he was hardly listening to a word she said. He was lacing her corset and watching her dress in their bedroom, just how life was supposed to be. He heard the humming of her voice, but not the words she was saying, and it wasn't until she looked at him expectantly that he realized she'd asked him a question. “Beg your pardon?”  
   
“Does anyone else know you're here?”  
   
“Minerva and Mattie,” he said, the magic of the moment slipping away as he remembered the reason he'd come home. Not wanting to see her reaction, he dropped his head; but like gravity he was drawn back to the face he’d missed so much.  
   
Augusta’s own smile altered into something of a grimace. She slid on her wedding rings and sat down next to him again, lacing their fingers together. His felt too bony between hers. Judging by her quick glance down, she noticed too, but she said nothing about it. “Sweetheart. Why do they know you're home?”  
   
“We buried Ames here. It was only right. And Micah…he was terrified of being tossed in a pit out there. It was only right,” he said, tracing circles with his thumbs on the back of her hands to keep from meeting her eye. He felt rather than saw her disappointment, and though her grip tightened, he took comfort in the reminder that he had her to hold onto.

* * *

Augusta had carried bucket after bucket from the well into Mammy’s cabin for heating, and once she’d had the water boiling, she’d dragged an old trough from the barn into the cabin, knowing Mammy would have had a fit if she’d seen Goodnight in the house in his current state. She’d left him to soak in the warmth while she’d returned to the house for his things, taking his shabby excuse for clothes with her to burn.

Having successfully warded off her Ginny, who was very suspicious about where her mother would be going with her father’s clothes, Augusta returned with Goodnight’s toilet and one of his suits, which she placed by the fire to keep warm. Her husband was buried to his nose in the water, knobby knees sticking out, his eyes closed and paying her no mind. She frowned at his knees, and though he didn’t seem inclined in the slightest to bathe yet, said, “I’ve always found it so much nicer when someone washes my hair.”

“You’re not Mammy,” Goodnight said, leaning his head over the trough to see her. He flashed a brief lopsided smile and then slid back into the water. “I thought for sure she’d caught wind of me being here and was trying to hurry me along.”

“Not Mammy, but I am here to get you out before you turn into a prune.” Goodnight harrumphed but sat up and leaned back, and Augusta dipped a glass into his water, cupping her hands around his ears and across his forehead to keep the water from running into his face, then worked the soap into his hair, slowly and gently, trying to imitate the scratching that her mother and Mammy had done as a child. She had gone to nap after days of bending over the garden and the laundry, but she would never refuse anything her husband needed.

And he needed work. The cloth he’d had on his body as a shirt had hung like a drape, exposing his too sharp shoulders and collarbone, and when he’d discarded it, she’d been able to count his every rib; how he’d ever kept his britches around his waist, she had no idea. She almost hadn’t recognized him when she’d awoken, his cheeks so hollow beneath a full beard, eyes more than a little frightened but still his own. He’d distantly watched her prepare his bath, a look of confused longing on his face, as though he wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten there or why he wanted her so badly. Goodnight needed work, and Augusta would use her dying breath to help.

“Goody!” she laughed when he leaned against her stomach, soaking the front of her dress. Without much vigor, she pushed him forward again with one hand, using the other to rinse his hair. “You're not helping.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Robicheaux, you felt too good—am I really that ripe,” Goodnight asked as she set about to lathering his hair again. He glanced up to her smirk. “Oh, fiddle-dee, I sparkle.”

She rinsed his hair once more. “If that's the case, hurry and finish, and I'll show you a trick I learned at the hospital.”

“No good tricks have ever come from a hospital.”

Catching the look she gave him from beneath her lashes, Goodnight, with a sigh, set about to washing himself, watching as Augusta puttered about the cabin, fiddling with a pan over the fire and moving a few worn towels in it, mixing his shaving cream over the counter. The real reason she wanted him out of the bath was so she could get a meal in him before she sent him to bed, where she planned to keep him until the funeral. When she held out a towel, he scowled at the thing but took it from her, turning his scowl up to her for the briefest of moments before it faded into a grin of boyish awe.

Augusta looked away as he rose from the water, not out of privacy but fear she would cry if she took too hard a look at what the war had done to him.

Once dressed, Goodnight startled when Augusta began tying his cravat around his neck but then smiled dreamily, and Augusta knew she was mirroring his expression; they could have very well been planning to go calling on neighbors or strolling about the city, had she been wearing a nicer dress and jewels. She hummed again, sharing a quick kiss, then motioned toward a chair at the kitchen table.

His eyes widened until they looked too big for his thin face as she opened one of her towels to reveal his razor, and she turned to him with it in her hand, asking very seriously, “Do you trust me, Mr. Robicheaux?”

Goodnight inhaled deeply. “I thought I did until you were standing over me with a blade.”

“Don't worry, I come highly recommended,” she teased. She traded the razor for a brush and lathered it with shaving cream. “Lean back, and don't look so tense. I promise I've had practice.”

Crossing himself and earning a stripe of shaving cream down his nose from it, Goodnight settled back in the chair, closing his eyes as she lathered him up and began chattering. “Beau and Ginny will throw a conniption fit when they learn you're here. So will Theodore, for that matter, and be prepared for him to show you his newspaper clippings. He got a fussing a few times for cutting out one of your articles before anyone else could read the paper, poor thing. Ana’s absolutely ruined him, he'll never find a wife because he’ll faint at the thought of speaking to a girl. I can't imagine how very lonely he is, being the oldest, at least Beau and Ginny have the rest of the children.”

Pausing, Augusta hummed, and though she hadn’t touched him with the razor, he immediately opened his eyes. “How’re you doing?”

“Oh swell,” she murmured quietly, her brow knitted in concentration. “Goody, can I try something?”

“You have the razor.”

She swept it over his cheeks and down his jaw a few times, slowing but avoiding the area under his nose and around his lips, and then mirrored her actions on the other side of his face. She patted the towel over his face and quirked her head thoughtfully at her work. Without the beard, she could almost recognize her husband. “I declare, I married the most handsome man in Louisiana.”

“You missed a section,” Goodnight said, running his hand over his new goatee. He’d always told her that as a boy, he'd disliked the scratchy feel of his father’s beard and he’d assumed that she would prefer to be kissed by a clean-shaven face.

“I kind of like this. You look…you look like you should be contemplating philosophy all day. Like you'd be the most interesting conversation in the world. People would be clamoring to have you at their dinner tables and parlors, and you'd never have a moment to yourself. Until I stole you, that is.” Augusta sat down on his knees and pressed her lips to his. She wrinkled her nose; perhaps he had been right and she did prefer to be kissed by a clean-shaven face. “Well, I can't say I very much enjoy the feel—”

“Shave the rest.”

“—but I'll get used to it. I won't shave the rest, I like the way it looks.” She pressed another kiss to his lips, humming at the smacking sound they made, but her smile faded as she gazed at his face. “Is this for good?”

Volunteering at the hospitals, she had seen what war could do to a man, and though he had been different the Christmas he was home, this felt too much. The man she’d sent away had been Goodnight Robicheaux, one of Louisiana’s most prosperous planters who had never been without a book and satin handkerchief, and he’d come home jittery and all but starved. She couldn’t let him return, not again; she couldn’t let him be worse than this. But she could see that even at home he was still fighting a battle, ‘God strike me down if I ever leave your side’ ready on his lips, but something kept him from saying it.

Dropping his eyes from hers, he said in a small voice, “I have to go back. I only came to bring Micah home. I have to see it through. For them.”

Something inside her knew that’s what he would say. Augusta understood why he’d said it, and although she had never known Micah Magee very well, she’d loved Ames in her own way, and she knew there was nothing he would have wanted than to be in his bright yellow house with Mathilde; if Ames had seen any more of the war, he would have wanted Goodnight home too. She’d never gone against Goodnight’s will, and now wasn’t the time to start, but maybe she could convince him to linger.

“Promise you won't leave until winter is over, when you're fattened up and rested.”

“Gus…”

“Goodnight. You’re thin as a rail and look ready to jump out of your skin at the slightest racket. If I send you back now, that's as good as murder. I know what the camps are like, and Lord knows the Confederacy can’t take care of you during the summer, much less the winter. Three months, that's all I'm asking.”

Three months. It shouldn't have felt like anything at all, but it did, it felt like a lifetime, one that they hadn't had. It would be a luxury to spend three months at home, where he could watch his children play instead of reading about it, where she could sleep next to him instead of feeling his absence.

Micah and Ames had not gotten the luxury of three months home—three months Goodnight and Augusta both knew Micah and Ames wouldn't have hesitated to take. 

* * *

After his bath, Augusta, wanting to keep him a surprise, had smuggled him back to their room via the servants’ stairs, leaving him to rest until dinner while she finished her work for the day. Goodnight had taken off his boots, still worried about needlessly wearing them out, and puttered about the room. It felt bare in comparison to how it once was. Most of their jewelry was missing, though he assumed that was because she'd hidden it, and their lovely clothes had been packed into cedar trunks in the boudoir; in place of jewelry sat a little metal box on her vanity, which contained every letter he'd written during the war, and even a few from before they were married. He’d smiled at his own handwriting and her sentimentality and gently replaced the box.  
   
Goodnight had forgotten how quiet Foxsong was. Instead of sleeping, he'd gazed out the window at his land, the fields now overgrown but just as beautiful, and then to the barn where he could see his nieces and nephews jumping from the loft to the hay pile. Finally a little black head appeared, hesitated, hopped off the ledge; when Ginny popped out of the hay, Salome’s two girls set about to picking at her hair, and Goodnight chuckled to himself at the thought of her wild curls littered with hay.  
   
He watched them until they went inside, when he had to find a new way to occupy his time, too afraid to fall asleep and have the house alerted to his presence by his shouts, or to have Augusta return to find him drenched in sweat. Eventually he found a book and battled against sleep with it until Augusta returned.  
   
Augusta's surprise hadn't gone to plan. When he’d followed Augusta inside the parlor, his children had shrieked with excitement, and even Theodore had shouted his name and followed behind his younger cousins to greet him. Anastasie, on the other hand, had said nothing but sloshed her drink onto her lap, and Salome, in her unexcited tone, had exclaimed, “Heavens.”  
   
Oceane had looked personally offended. Catching the fire blazing in Oceane’s eyes, Salome had risen from her seat and crossed the parlor with her arms outstretched, saying, “Augusta, you must be so relieved to have him home. Well? Kiss my cheek like a good brother and come sit down. We've missed you so.” Perhaps she'd meant it to ward off Oceane's attacks, but Oceane had only seemed to take Salome’s actions as another insult. Her chest had swelled, and from then on, Oceane was on the warpath.  
   
That was how Goodnight had found himself trailing out the door after his wife, who kept raising her hand to her face, though for what reason, Goodnight couldn’t see.  
   
The ground crunched under their feet as they made their way down the familiar path to the creek. When they’d reached their tree, Augusta flopped down violently and didn’t wait for him to join her. “I can’t take them anymore, Goody, I really can’t. My head is constantly pounding, and my back aches from bending over all day.” Then she gazed sorrowfully into his face. “I’m so sorry for this. It’s your time home, and I shouldn’t be putting this on you.”  
   
“Oh darlin’, I don’t mind, and you know that,” Goodnight answered, pressing a kiss to her temple. He bent one knee and put that leg behind her back, throwing the other leg across her own, and a satisfied warmth spread through him when she scooted closer. “I just love the sound of that pretty voice.”

She snorted in amusement and pulled up a fistful of grass before she said, “We could leave, you know. We could just pack up everything and leave tonight. We have enough money, and not Confederate money either. We should leave before it’s all gone.”

He pressed his lips to her temple, resting her forehead against her. Once he'd considered Foxsong his most prized possession, and he would have laughed in the face of anyone who had suggested he ever give it up. How could he ever let go of this place, the jewel of Louisiana, the land that had belonged to his ancestors and would belong to his descendants? But things were not quite the same anymore. Once he would have laughed, but once he'd also valued things that did not seem so necessary anymore. Goodnight loved the house and its belongings, his clothes and jewels, but he'd give them all away for the right company and the promise of food on their table every night.

But New Orleans, like the people who lived there was resilient. It had seen two fires and rebuilt, it had seen countless hurricanes and rebuilt, had overcome crop failure and epidemics. The war was lasting longer than anyone expected and taking its toll, but New Orleans could recover, slowly but surely. Eventually they would fall into something that resembled their lives. Goodnight would be able to watch his children grow up in this house, and he would grow old next to his wife, perhaps in clothes that had seen better days, but there wasn't anything in New Orleans that hadn't seen better days.

“Don’t tempt me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stopped myself from writing a letter, telling you to meet me at some train station with everything that would fit in the buggy. So please, don’t tempt me, Augusta,” Goodnight said, trying to keep in mind that they could return to something almost normal.

“It would ruin your honor,” she agreed, brushing back a strand of his hair. Behind her eyes, he saw her make a mental note to get it cut before he had to leave.  
   
“Have you given no thought about your sisters,” he asked, knowing he should be putting out the flames instead of fanning them.  
   
“To hell with my sisters.” At her sharp words, Goodnight laughed, surprised at her usually pleasant mouth, and Augusta ogled at him. “I kid you not, Goody! One of these days, I just know that I’ll kill them.”  
   
And just like that, the happy expression on Goodnight’s face melted away, and he stared at Augusta blankly. His voice hardened without him meaning to. “Don’t ever say that.”  
   
For a few moments, neither spoke; Augusta searched his face, while Goodnight wrestled with the guilt that came with snapping at his wife. Eventually she cupped his cheek. “Oh, sweetheart. I didn’t—I didn’t think. I’m so sorry. I just…I don’t like Oceane. You’re right that she’s a bully.”  
   
In reply, Goodnight wrapped his arms around her more tightly, and Augusta pulled his lips to hers.  
   
Her hand on his face was rougher than he remembered. But when he thought about the hours she had spent toiling in the gardens and about the house, baking in the kitchen, in order to keep their estate running, he was grateful. He breathed in her scent, now mingled with herbs and a bit of soap. Despite the cold, and the fact that the wind was blowing on them, he wanted to stay like they were forever.

There was a part of him that never made it off the battlefield and left a gaping hole, one that it felt Augusta was covering up.

* * *

When they returned to the house, Mammy had left their dinner in Augusta’s sitting room and their children waiting for them, Beau swinging his legs while he told his sister an animated story and Ginny listening patiently with an expression of intelligent amusement that made Goodnight think she would have no problem when it came to beaux. They’d both made a leap for him, and somehow Goodnight managed to catch them in either arm, Beau’s laughter covering up Ginny’s cries of “Daddy!” She’d pressed childish kisses to his cheek, and when she’d gotten too close to his neatly-trimmed beard, had reeled away quickly. Goodnight had teased Augusta that he would shave the rest of it off in the morning if both his girls were going to snarl when they kissed him, but Augusta had merely cocked an eyebrow at the challenge. Perhaps he’d gone too long without decent food, for their excited chattering had distracted him from his meal, and it had only been when Augusta threatened to send them to bed if he didn’t eat that he remembered it. After he’d had his fill, Augusta had gone to ready herself while Goodnight had put the children to bed with no small amount of wonder if he was doing it correctly; their only complaints had been that they didn’t want to go to sleep, but they’d been pacified with the promise of his attention for the entire next day.

As he was closing the door to the nursery, Goodnight’s smile froze at the sight of a figure at the end of the hall. The greeting he’d received earlier that evening made him scared to approach her, but it was his gentlemanly duty to console a lady, and he prayed he could still do his gentlemanly duty. She did not acknowledge him as he approached or even as soon as he’d stopped next to her, leaving him at even more of a loss.

“I'm so tired of this war,” Salome said eventually, voice especially husky, face drooping, perhaps realizing he was at a loss. “It's taken everything I have. My home, my husband, my heart. I bet you didn't know I had that, though, did you?”  
   
“Everyone has a heart,” he whispered, and Salome scoffed. He knew everyone had a heart because he'd seen too many stop. He'd been the one to stop too many.  
   
“Mine belonged to Dorian. I don't know what I'm to do now. My house is in rubble, and my husband is dead hundreds of miles away. Where am I to go, what about my children?”  
   
“Of course you'll stay here, Sal. You're more than welcome, and Augusta wouldn't have it any other way.”  
   
Salome turned her long, beautiful face up to him, and in the moonlight, he could just make out crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes, which watered slightly. She didn't look like Salome Saucier, the second Evercreech sister who could stop a heart or capture it with a single glance. That Salome had been full of pride and mockery, ready with a sneer or smirk, always looking down her nose from those heavily-lidded gray eyes. This Salome was anything but that woman. Arms wrapped tightly about herself, she held on like it was all she had; and maybe it was. “You're a good man, Goodnight Robicheaux.”  
   
This time, Goodnight felt it was his turn to scoff. If Salome knew half of what soldiers did, she wouldn’t look him in the eye. He kept his scoff to himself, though, and only asked, “Is that what your theatrics in the parlor were about?”  
   
“That? Oh, that was not for you, that was for my sister, much good it did. She was skipping along until she caught Oceane’s eye, and I did not want another Christmas episode. If Augusta’s happy, she's going to stay that way. I'm thankful she has you, you know.”  
   
“Well, Augusta is a good woman, and I'm thankful for her.” He could recite the letter Mathilde had sent to him following his mother’s death, and he hesitated, afraid of how Salome might answer his next question. “How is she, really?”  
   
“Exhausted but resilient. Hopelessly devoted. Though I suppose I could say the same about you, Goody.” Wiping at her eyes, Salome stepped towards him and wrapped her arms around his chest. Unsure of exactly what was happening, and not missing that Salome had called him by his diminutive, Goodnight hesitated before he tentatively returned the gesture, eyes scanning the area for a way out.  
   
“I'm sorry,” Salome whispered when she pulled away.  
   
Goodnight pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, hoping she wouldn’t notice his shaking hand, and Salome accepted it with a whimper. “Dry your eyes, Sal, and silence those apologies. You're one tough bird, and don't you forget it.”

She scoffed again, turning her face away as though embarrassed, and swatted a him saying, “Just go to bed, you silly man.”  
   
His stomach knotted, suddenly tense, suddenly more nervous to sleep with Augusta than he’d been on their wedding night.

* * *

Goodnight leaned his head on the glass windowpane and let the cool spread across his forehead as if it could offer him clarity.  
   
Just past the glass, the big white oak with the swing cast a shadow into the bedroom, and beyond that were the fields through which he’d spent countless hours riding. He could be under the willow by the creek in a matter of minutes. He could cross the room in two strides and stoke the fire, which now burned lowly. In a dozen strides, he could be holding his son or daughter in his arms, like their mama was able to do every night. Like their mama, who was in their bed right behind him, still unclothed from their romp. Their mama who slept soundly a few feet away, black curls fanned across the pillow and in her face. Oh, their wonderful mama.  
    
Goodnight tried to focus on these things, but still his mind strayed. He tried to listen to the wind whistling and Augusta’s soft breathing, but instead he only heard the same thing he’d been hearing for years. His breath hitched in his chest, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly in an attempt to block out everything. As if it ever worked.  
   
_Goody—Goody, help me, please!_  
   
A cannon exploded in the distance. A bullet buzzed inches from his ear, and blood was pouring from the man’s stomach, but Goodnight was kneeling down to him anyways and pressing a hand to the wound.  
   
_Tell Mattie I love her._  
   
Micah was stumbling as they sprinted down the street.  
   
“Goody?” came a soft, high voice that was much too out of place in Maryland, and the sheets rustled, but Goodnight didn’t take his head off the window. The bed creaked. One, two, three steps, and Augusta’s warm body pressed flush against his back as her hands slipped through between his arms and side until they rested on his bare chest. “Come to bed.”  
   
“I can’t, Gus.” He hated the way his voice shook. His chest kept tightening, and he couldn't stop it, and he was terrified that if he went to bed, there would be a repeat of what had happened at Christmas. “Gus—”  
   
“Sweetheart,” she said, suddenly much more alert, and she ducked under his arm so that she faced him. He hated the way she was looking at him, big eyes wide with fear, hated the fact that he was home and making her even more worried. She pushed him back to the edge of the bed and took a seat on his knees. “Sweetheart, what's wrong?”  
   
Goodnight shook his head. She didn’t need another child in the house, someone else she had to coddle and protect. He was supposed to be the man of the house, her protector, but if there was anyone who would help him, it was Augusta. There was a part of him that had died on the battlefield; Augusta deserved a whole husband, and while it wasn't what she was getting, it could be what she would give.

   
“I’m losing my mind, Gus. I can hear them, all their voices. I don’t know some of them, but I can hear their voices, and they’re saying the exact same things as I am. They want to go home, they’re begging for their mamas and sisters and wives. They’re asking God to keep them safe, and they’re pleading with me not to shoot. Goddamn, Augusta, the things they say…”  
   
“Goody,” she whispered, turning his head up to hers, making him meet her teary eyes. “Goody, I have no doubt that you can hear them. I can't imagine the things you've witnessed, and I don't think you're losing your mind. But you’re here. You’re here at Foxsong, with your family. You’re with me. No matter what they say, they can’t hurt you.  
   
“We’re together.”  
   
He pressed the side of his face to her chest, letting Augusta trace circles on the back of his neck while he regained control; in another time, it seemed, he recalled lying on a blanket with her while he scandalously traced circles on her palm. He tried center himself in that time and let everything slip away. Her skin was hot beneath his touch, and he drank it in, pulling her as close her he could. But more than anything, he closed his eyes to the steady voice of her heartbeat saying the same thing over and over.  
   
Ma-vie, ma-vie.

* * *

The funeral followed two days after Goodnight arrived.

Women and children comprised most of the congregation, except for a few very old men and some who had lost limbs or couldn't fight. Ansel Delacroix had lost his leg from the knee down at Stone River, and Jacques Jarreau had caught malaria the first summer of the war; he'd come home ill and remained at home, a pale, yellow, ghostly reminder. The priest was not a priest at all, but old Mr. Jarreau, who had once served as the parish doctor when needed.

Out of habit, Goodnight repeated the proper words and kneeled and stood as he was supposed to. Often he'd been told that funerals were for the living and not the dead, but none of the things they did ever made him feel better. This time, though, when the piano started, it was Augusta who did not sing; not until he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

Like he'd wanted, Micah was interred in the family tomb. It took every man in attendance to push the stone slowly into place with more grunting and cursing than was appropriate for a funeral, and the moment it slid shut was the moment Minerva lost her resolve. She let loose a long, high wail and finally fell into a round of tears. Mathilde and Augusta caught her before she reached the ground, and together they half-guided, half-carried her back to the house, followed by the rest of the procession.

Goodnight lingered outside the tomb. Micah’s biggest fear of being buried outside of New Orleans had not come true, and Goodnight had kept his promise—yet he found it hard to feel anything, neither sorrow nor pride.

No one overstayed their welcome at Fair Oaks, although Goodnight thought Minerva would have said they'd all overstayed their welcome the second they walked inside. Perhaps everyone had experienced enough funerals for the time being, or they knew they would see each other soon enough. They each lingered long enough to be polite before they kissed Minerva’s cheek and said their goodbyes until there was no one besides the Robicheauxes and Mathilde.

Goodnight watched Mathilde and Minerva share a look before Minerva said, “Augusta come look at this quilt and tell me what you think of the stitching.”

Without waiting for a reply, Minerva took Augusta by the arm and led her from the room. Listening to their footsteps grow dimmer, Goodnight wondered what he'd gotten himself into by having Minerva and Mathilde plot to get him alone. When a farther door closed, Mathilde turned to him and said, “I want to tell you a story, Goody.”

“Is my wife rubbing off on you,” Goodnight teased, hoping it masked that he was sweating beneath his collar—the war had showed just how tricky any woman could be. Mathilde let a polite grin flicker across her lips but continued to stare determinedly. Settling back in his seat, Goodnight gestured for her to continue.

“In the spring twelve years ago, my parents and the Evercreeches decided we’d had enough schooling, so Augusta, Hattie and I came home from where we'd been at the convent together. Not a week later, we went to the church picnic and I was trying so hard to be on my best behavior before I ended up like Blanche. It didn't happen, of course, but it caught the eye of one gentleman, and that was enough. We talked and laughed for hours.  
   
“He would tell me wild stories about his childhood. About chasing bulls and playing tricks, riding horses through the bayou past gators, learning to shoot. And every single story he told me had you in it. He would tell me all kinds of stories about his best friend Goodnight Robicheaux. ‘Why, we’re practically brothers,’ he'd say with so much pride, and then he'd go on and on about you. You were the best shot, the cleverest, the smoothest talker—why, you'd even gone to Charleston for school. But he'd also always say, 'Miss Mathilde, he can't get his nose out of a book long enough to notice a pretty girl.’  
   
“And then Augusta came out. No one wanted to go to her party because they'd been worn out by her sisters and thought she was another, but I begged Ames to come so we could dance. So, he went, and so did the rest of the parish, and they met my friend. Quiet as a church mouse against Oceane, praline sweet, and then she sat down and told her story about a boo-hag and a toad, and everyone fell in love with her. Next thing I knew, Ames was begging me to introduce him because she was the one. And that hurt until he said, ‘Goody will love her, she's the one! She's the only woman alive who'd know the word querolas!’ So I introduced him.”

Mathilde swiped at her eyes. “We snuck away that night. Walked down to your creek and planned what we would do. He had to get you home first, which he did, and then it was only a matter of getting you two together. When we did, that night at the Magees’, he looked at you two together, and he said to me, ‘Mattie, honey, I promise I'll marry you. But we've got to make sure he's not a lonely old bachelor first.’ And when he found out you'd gone calling on her, he said, ‘Well, I reckon it's time for that wedding now.’ That was my proposal.”  
   
Goodnight turned away from Mathilde. It was just the sort of thing Ames would have done, planning his wedding at a time when it would sweep Goodnight along and make him propose as well—and it had worked. Hearing how Ames had taken care of him hurt more than he'd ever imagined, but he figured he deserved it. He was the reason Ames was dead, the reason for Mathilde’s sorrow. If he had to hear that in her voice, he didn’t want to see it in her face too.  
   
Mathilde continued, “She's told me you're not staying. All he wanted was to make sure you wouldn’t suddenly wake up one day and find yourself alone. I love Ames and Augusta with all my heart, and I’ve loved you because they love you. But if you leave—if you leave and don’t come back—I won’t forgive you.”  
   
She met his gaze, blue eyes icy and hard, her mouth in a determined line. He'd never seen Mathilde angry or harsh, and seeing her now, Goodnight understood the wrath of a woman. “Mattie…Ames and Mic—”  
   
“Oh, don't give me any pucky. Goodnight. Do you know what Ames and Micah would have given to have been where you are? How badly they wanted to come home? And here you are for the second time, ready to go back, ready to leave your family. It’s cruel, Goodnight.”  
   
“What do you expect, for me to be a coward and hide here behind Augusta’s skirts like the rest of New Orleans? I'm not a coward, Mattie,” Goodnight scoffed, looking away from Mathilde again with a snarl that did not feel like it was justly warranted.  
   
“That's exactly what you're being,” Mathilde snarled back, rising off the settee. “You think you're being noble by saving your name, but if you were half as noble as you think you are, you'd stay with your family. It’s what Ames wanted and Augusta needs you and if you don't come back to her, I swear I won't forgive you. I'll love you because they love you, but I won't forgive you.”  
   
“Mattie…”  
   
“You're cruel and selfish, Goodnight Robicheaux,” was all she said as she brushed past him out of the room.  
   
Goodnight watched her go. She was wrong, of course; he had to go back, and that was the right thing to do. She feared him dying, that was all. Once Augusta had talked some sense into her, she would calm down, perhaps apologize, and things would settle back to the way they had been. Yet he knew things were never going to settle back to the way they had been. Maybe that was why Mathilde was so scared, because she too knew how much they had changed.  
   
Mathilde had left behind a sense of unease and guilt, which he tried with no avail to push down. He didn't want to understand his guilt, but he did, and he didn't know how not to acknowledge it.

Within moments, Augusta moseyed into the room and toward the arm Goodnight held out to her, likely confused about Mathilde’s sudden change of mood. She blinked quickly as Goodnight helped her into her coat and followed along behind him out the door.

* * *

As long as they’d been married, Goodnight and Augusta had slept tangled together, and the winter of 1864 was no different except for how they tangled together; where Goodnight had once tucked his body around her and entwined their limbs, they now faced each other, he clutching her to his chest like a child with a ragdoll. Many nights than not, Augusta woke to Goodnight dreaming, mumbling fearfully, his arms and legs twitching, breath choked. She would weasel out an arm from where it was tucked between them or slung over his thin torso as she held him just as close; sometimes the movement woke him, and sometimes she'd gently shake him.

On one such night, Augusta fell out of sleep not from his choked-out apologies but from how tightly he held her. She grunted when he twitched and crushed her knee between his. “Sweetheart—”

“I'm sorry, Gus,” he gasped, though his eyes remained closed and he twitches violently again. “Sorry, sorry…”

Unconsciously, Goodnight’s fingers tightened around the sheets and her nightgown, and Augusta struggled to finagle her arm from between Goodnight’s bony ribs and her own torso. Even with all her wiggling, he kept dreaming; he was so far gone that Augusta backed away once she'd managed to free herself, and tentatively she patted his shoulder. “Goody, sweetheart…Goody?”

His arms flailing wildly, Augusta dodged a hit as Goodnight jerked up, retching and heaving. Bright eyes rolled in panic, darting around the room but not seeing anything in it. He was so very far away tonight. She reached out a hand to stroke his cheek, murmuring gently, “Goody, sweetheart, you're home, you're home. Come back to me. Look–look at me, sweetheart, look at me and come back.”

His chest heaving, it took her physically holding his face toward hers before he looked her in the eye. “Gus?” 

“It's me,” Augusta said, keeping her eyes locked with his as she reached to her nightstand for a rag. Beneath her touch he trembled. He allowed Augusta to mop at his damp forehead, and she hoped her expression was stoic, but Goodnight had always said she had a face of glass and she doubted she was hiding any of her pain. Eyes still wide, mouth turned down at the corners, he looked terribly like a frightened child.

Leaned back against their pillows, Augusta gathered him to her. Wretched business, war was, and a wretched mess it was making. Goodnight pressed his ear to her chest, and Augusta kept still, knowing what he was listening for. She traced patterns over his bare back, waiting for him to speak, if he did speak. After a moment, he said, “A woman in Arkansas let me sleep in her loft.”

“Give me her name, and I’ll do everything to find her,” Augusta answered. That had not been what his dream had been about, but she wouldn’t pester. She’d been hailed for her patience before; now was the perfect time to use it. “I’m eternally indebted to anyone who takes care of you.”

Without looking at her, Goodnight reached up a hand, and Augusta tossed her hair over her shoulder so that he could wrap it around his fingers. She knew he loved her hair; years ago, she’d wondered what he was doing when his hand would near her face but fall back to his side without touching, and when she’d realized he was wanting to touch her hair, she’d held her breath and hoped each time his hand lingered next to her that he would brush her hair, then touch her face and pull her to him. It made her warm to have him playing in it, and if it helped him calm, then all the better.

“Have you...have you ever had to hold down a man for an amputation?” His voice came out small. It was startling, because Goodnight always did everything big, and she had had to remind herself that it was really him.

“Almost. They tried for me to help, but the first time they pulled out the blade and I almost fainted right there, they stuck me on letter-writing duty,” Augusta said. She paused, waiting to see if he would continue on his own, wanted prompting, or wanted the subject dropped altogether. When he didn’t speak or turn up his face to ask for a kiss, she asked, “Have you held down a man for amputation?”

She felt him swallow hard. “I...at Rappahannock, I took a shot at a colonel but hit his shoulder when he moved.”

Augusta wanted to say, “You, miss? Why, Mr. Robicheaux, did you go blind?” and under any other circumstances—under any other circumstances, he would have laughed—but instead, she asked, “Is that what your dream was about? The colonel at Rappahannock?”

After a long pause in which he still did not turn up his face to her, he said, “I was holding the saw, and somewhere you kept screaming that it was your son, it was your son, to please spare your son, and when I looked down, I was sawing away at Beau’s shoulder. Just sawing, not really cutting but doing plenty of damage.”

“Do you want to go see him?” Goodnight didn’t say a word but only raised himself off her, and Augusta took that as her cue to unwrap her arms.

Inside the nursery, Goodnight gingerly sat down on the edge of Beau’s bed with as much grace as Augusta herself could have managed. Augusta watched from the doorway as he brushed a knuckle down Beau’s temple, back up and down with a feather-light touch. He held Beau’s hand in his and thumbed over his little fingers, and Augusta remembered how concerned Goodnight had been that his children had all their digits when they were born. For a long while he sat like that, running his hands over Beau’s and brushing at the tight curls Augusta had given him.

When he finally turned to her, Augusta offered a what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and eventually, as he returned from wherever he’d been, he grinned too and reached for her outstretched hand.

* * *

November gave way to December, and in the mornings, Augusta found herself even more grateful for the presence of her husband. In the years of the war, she had been the one to rise early for plantation business, but now she pressed herself closer to Goodnight, taking in his warmth, his comfort.

She abandoned her work during the days, feeling little guilt when one of her sisters picked up her chores. Instead, she spent her hours with Goodnight doing whatever he wanted. Usually they sat very still somewhere and talked for hours and hours. It felt both strange and familiar until Augusta realized that Goodnight was saying very little in comparison to how loquacious he had once been, always asking her questions to prompt her ramblings, and it felt very much like he was courting her again. Augusta came to understand Mammy’s frustration with her; when they weren’t sitting, she was forever chasing Goodnight with a tray of food, and when she’d put it in his hands, he always took on a look of pleasant surprise. Moments like that—or moments where Goodnight seemingly retreated somewhere far into his mind and stared distantly at something she could not see—scared Augusta more than any Yankees ever had.

 So in those moments when she had him to herself—which was rare, considering Beau and Ginny and Theodore and even Salome, who hovered in doorways and asked silly questions at the end of awkward pauses—Augusta tucked herself into his thin arms and peppered kisses over his face, keeping them quick and girlish and always letting their noses bump until he gave in and became a timid version his old self. In those moments, he kissed her long and sweetly, never hard, smiling around whispered French. In those moments, his face took on that look of boyish awe as though he had just discovered the beauty that was woman.

At night, he lingered getting ready for bed. He would stop in the middle of his own undressing to watch her, and when he did not seem to realize she had seen that he was not moving, she would begin undoing his buttons herself. He’d mutter something about not being tired. They both knew the truth. Augusta always replied, “Well I am, and I’d like you to go to bed with me, please?”

While he still woke entirely too much during the nights, there came a point that when she woke, she began to find him asleep more often in the mornings, and unwilling to disrupt that, she would remain still in his arms. Eventually he began to chatter more and his laugh sounded genuine and she wasn't the only one to begin their little intimacies. When she’d ask where he’d been after his distant moments, he would tell her something about the war, their constant marching or the fields after battle, and she’d reach for his hand, hoping it would remind him of where he was.

Gradually, Goodnight began spending his days more mobile. He would bundle up Beau and Ginny and take them riding, Ginny on her little pony and Beau on Augusta’s easy mare, and all three would come back with windswept hair and red noses. When they sat on the porch swing, Goodnight would test Ginny’s French and engage Beau in his bugs. Once he asked Beau if he wanted to go to school to study bugs, and Beau had looked at him like he’d just been handed the world.

The four Robicheauxes spent Christmas huddled together in Augusta’s sitting room with a tiny little fir tree that Goodnight and Beau had found that morning. Their fingers and faces were sticky with Biloxi oranges and peppermint logs that Augusta had made using a bit of now-precious sugar. The three of them had gifts from Augusta: Beau an entomology book with lots of pictures, Ginny a beginner’s piano book, and Goodnight a silver flask with a fleur-de-lis, to match his pins. At some point, they heard the squabbling of female voices down the hall, and while Augusta shook her head, a timid hand rapped on the door, which opened to reveal Theodore. He settled between Goodnight and Augusta, eyes brightening behind his glasses. Under the devoted attention of the other four, Goodnight prattled on with all the ease and charisma that Augusta had first known him to have.

It felt so normal and right that it took all Augusta’s power to remind herself that it was only until the spring.

* * *

On a day in mid-January, Goodnight sat at the piano with Ginny as Beau and Augusta poured over his Christmas gift for the hundredth time. Ginny had begged and begged for ‘her song,’ and as Goodnight could never deny his wife, in no way would he ever be able to deny his daughter. After several demonstrations of the notes and much convincing, Goodnight had gotten her to agree to play while he sang. Her tiny fingers were not nearly big enough to play many of the keys, and she stumbled for those out of reach but kept going with him.

  _“Yet if thy green eyes I see,_

_Gloom will soon depart._

_For to me, sweet Aura Lee,_

_Is sunshine to the heart.”_  

“You changed the words,” Ginny said when they’d finished. From her place on his lap, Goodnight saw a fretful tremble of her lip.

“Well I had to. When my Aurelie has those beautiful green eyes, how could I ever sing about blue ones?” Still the lip trembled, and Goodnight wondered if other men were as much a sucker as he was. “ _Ma petite étoile_ , whatever is the matter?”

“That was bad,” she said, her voice taking on the wobble of her lip.

“Oh, honey, just because I’m a little out of tune doesn’t mean you can’t spare my feelings.” As she did not seem amused or comforted, Goodnight closed the fallboard and sat her on it so she faced him. “Why was that bad?”

“I couldn’t reach. I kept hitting the wrong keys, and I messed up. My hands are too small.” Between the big watery eyes and the trembling lip, Goodnight didn’t know whether to laugh or cry along with her. Instead, he took her little hands and turned them over in his.

“Honey, one day you’ll be taller than knee-high on a grasshopper, and Lord, won’t that be a sad day for me, but you’ll be absolutely elated because you’ll be able to pick away at these keys even better than your Aunt Val, I guarantee it. Just look at these hands. They're a lady’s if ever I've seen. Why, they're just like your mama’s,” he said, then added, “And do you know what? That was already better than your mama can play.”

At that, Ginny’s trembling lip turned into a bashful grin, and red creeped at her neck. Chuckling at his daughter’s similarities to Augusta, Goodnight kissed her knuckles. She giggled too, and asked, “Play Mama’s song, please?”

“Which one is that?” Goodnight scooped her off the fallboard and back into his lap, baring the keys again.

“ _À la claire fontaine_.”

“Oh, that's a mighty special one. I'll need help with it. Gus, would you do us the hon—”

Goodnight was cut off by the sound of hooves pounding down the drive, followed by a vaguely familiar cry of, “Mrs. Robicheaux!”

Instantly Augusta was on her feet and swishing to the door, one hand smoothing her hair, the other pinching her cheeks. The children remained in their seats, unperturbed, but Goodnight wondered at Augusta’s sudden urgency. He followed at her heels out the front door to find a Union lieutenant hunkered low over the neck of a horse and streaking toward them. At the sight of Augusta, he sat up, slowing his horse until it trotted to the front of the stairs. “Mrs. Robicheaux, I’m so—why, Goodnight Robicheaux, is that you?”

“I’ll be damned,” Goodnight laughed, recognition passing through his mind. “James Addington! It’s been near a decade since I saw you, how in God’s name did you wind up all the way in New Orleans?”

“Following orders, same as you, I reckon. Heard you’d gotten married, but I never would have thought you’d have done so well. Fine wife you’ve got here,” Addington said, holding out his hand. For a moment, he seemed relaxed; then Goodnight caught the anxiety behind his eyes as he said, “Have you got a minute to catch up?”

“Sure, sure. Gus, darlin’, why don’t you head on inside,” Goodnight suggested, steering her toward the door as subtly as possible. He watched until she reached the top of the stairs before he faced Addington again.

“Do not take this rudely,” Goodnight began, “but why are you here?”

“Your wife took us in without knowing who we were, and that deserves to be rewarded.” Addington looked past Goodnight to where Augusta was picking up Ginny to close the door behind her, then back to Goodnight. “You've made a name for yourself outside of here.”

“I've been a soldier.”

“So have I,” Addington said. He stopped there, but Goodnight heard his meaning. _I've been a soldier and no one outside my regiment can tell you who I am._ Addington must have realized Goodnight had understood the implication, for he said, “Major Campbell found out you lived somewhere around here, and in his egotism, wanted to be the one to take out the Angel of Death. He just happened to get the wrong house.”

Goodnight’s stomach dropped. Wrong house or not, it had more than likely belonged to one of their friends. They'd more than likely attended a barbecue or ball there, and now, thanks to him, it was gone. He'd displaced a family, lost their livelihood, their history. Wasn't it bad enough for the families of Union soldiers, wasn't it bad enough without causing the heartbreak of his own people? And yet he couldn’t stop himself from being so selfish as to ask, “Does he know that?”

“Not yet, at least. I don't think anyone who does know will be quick to tattle. I had no idea he’d gotten the wrong one, and that’s why I came out. I think it’s best if you and yours don’t come up to the city for a while.”

Goodnight searched for the indignance at an outsider telling him, Goodnight Robicheaux, that he shouldn't go to New Orleans but found none, only agreement. If the major thought he'd gotten him, then that was all the better. He could play defeated until the war was over. They could retreat into Foxsong and hide behind her walls, and when the time came, they could crawl out of their hibernation to face the world.

He and Addington stood for a few moments longer. They laughed about Lyman’s awful wife and a few others they had known before Addington took his leave.

Hoping to keep her suspicions low, Goodnight waited a few days before he told Augusta, “Keep a weapon on you when I’m not here. And I’d like you to go by Evercreech again.”

* * *

By the end of January, Goodnight alternated between staring blankly out the windows or all but smothering his family. He knew his self-granted furlough was ending, and at some point, he would have to make his leave. He would look out at the expanse of the now dead grass of Foxsong and think his time was coming, and then he would remember something of the utmost importance. The residents grew used to his sudden bursts of energy. Once he went from standing stock-still on the back porch to dragging his wife and children into the parlor because Beau was seven and he’d never had a single dance lesson. Another time, he and Augusta had launched into an impromptu performance of Titania and Oberon.

In these moments, Augusta either laughed or turned away.

As the beginning of February slipped away, anyone would have thought Goodnight and Augusta Robicheaux had attached themselves at the hip. They were always a step away from each other, always had a little shadow trailing behind them. It annoyed Anastasie like everything else annoyed her, and it enraged Oceane when she couldn't get their eyes on her, and even Salome, who had defended them fiercely since Goodnight had arrive, snapped more than once for them to find their senses. 

Two days before he was to leave, on St. Valentine's Day, his sister’s birthday, Goodnight and Augusta rode the near-forty miles to the Castex plantation for Goodnight to pay his respects. With no children from Valentine and Sacha, the old, respected name of Castex had reached its end in New Orleans, and Goodnight couldn't help but wonder how many more would follow. Rubadeau would end with Mathilde; Magee was gone; Delacroix still had hope; Miller would last until the world ended; and Robicheaux was still hanging on. It was fitting, he reckoned, that with how different life would be that there would be unfamiliar people with whom to share it.

“Was she happy,” Goodnight asked when they returned home. He'd lingered too long while Augusta had readied for bed and now remained fully dressed while she sat crossed-legged in her nightgown.

Augusta shrugged, “I think so, or as happy as Val would ever be, I reckon. She never complained, so I’d take that as a good sign. Hurry, please.” 

“I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying—”

“You're piddling—”

“And you're impatient, Mrs. Robicheaux,” Goodnight said, making no effort to mask his mirth. He cocked an eyebrow, asking, “What's got you so wound?”

“In the time it took me to change and fix my hair, you’ve only managed to undo your tie, and I’m ready for bed, Goody.” Goodnight grumbled no real words under his breath merely for the sake of her watching him grumble, but he focused on getting ready for bed. He folded his suit neatly and laid it to rest next to her dress before crawling up the foot of the bed toward her.

“Have you been happy, Gus,” he asked earnestly, taking her hands in his. A little puff of air escaped Augusta’s lips as she regarded him unexpectedly. She started to ask a question of her own, but Goodnight cut her off. “Darlin’, it feels like these past ten years have been about nothing but making you happy, and I know these last four haven’t been ideal, but have you been happy?”

Her features softened until he remembered a busy picnic when she’d been his only focus, where even under the sight of the parish they had been tempted closer and closer until she’d all but sat in his lap, where he’d tried to tell her he’d loved her, where it had been obvious that Ames had been delighted in stumbling upon their moment. Slowly she shook her head. “Goody, when I’ve had someone who would listen to me read all day and who never hesitates to indulge in a bit of silliness and who thinks it’s funny when I complain about my sisters and who can banter with me so well, when your fingers fit so perfectly in mine...I don’t know how I could be anything other than blissful. You’re right that the war hasn’t been _ideal,_ but, sweetheart, if it’s meant having you, then what else could I possibly ask for?

“Good gracious, it has been ten years, though, hasn’t it? Why, you’re almost thirty, Goody, we’re so old,” Augusta giggled, covering her mouth with her fist, and Goodnight, unrestrained, laughed with her as he pressed them both into the bed.

“And to think—I’ve loved you—the entire time,” Goodnight murmured between kisses to her bared throat. While her laugh died down, her big, bright smiled stayed on her lips, though it too faded into something dreamy. Hip to hip, chest to chest, Goodnight pulled her closer, wondering how anything could ever keep him away from her. For it was true, he had loved her from the very beginning. “ _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, ma vie, et je t'aimerai jusqu'à la fin des temps.”_

* * *

February in New Orleans was never too harsh, but that was one of the things Goodnight had always admired about his city: nothing was ever too harsh to overcome, not the people, not the weather, not the life. Everything moved slowly, easily, taking any obstacle in stride, and Goodnight shared the belief that even war, in time, would be manageable.

“Beau, son, I don't know what advice I can give you. My daddy gave me all kinds that I could give to you if it was useful, but I'm afraid you've a better handle on life than I ever have,” Goodnight said with a breathy laugh. Beau had that New Orleans spirit where no burden was so heavy that he couldn't dance, and it was the kind of spirit Goodnight wished everyone had. At his words, Beau broke into that smile, that big, bright, dimpled smile that was so utterly Augusta’s that Goodnight had to smile too. He kissed the top of his golden curls once, twice, three times, letting his lips linger only a moment before he patted his shoulder and turned to Ginny.

Big rosy cheeks, tight inky curls, she looked so much like Augusta that sometimes it broke Goodnight’s heart, and now was one of those times, when she was looking at him through earnest eyes, too big for her face and too green to be fair. “Oh, _ma petite étoile_ …if it makes your heart content, play every waking hour, and one day you'll capture more hearts than just mine. Boy if I can wait for that day.”

Without warning, Ginny launched herself into his hold and wrapped her arms around his neck. Once he though he hadn't wanted daughters, but he'd be lying through his teeth if he said she wasn't his pride. He held her close, her head fitting in the crook of his neck just perfectly, and petted her soft hair. His _petite étoile_.

A kiss to her cheek and a swipe of his finger down her nose, he returned Ginny to Augusta's other side before he made to stand.

“Maybe I could ride with you to the parish line,” Augusta suggested when he faced her, turning her eyes up to him just so that if Goodnight hadn’t known any better, he would have thought she was wielding them on purpose.

“Darlin’, if you ride with me to the parish line, you’ll ride with me all the way to Picayune, and then you’ll ride all the way to Alabama, and the next thing we know, we’ll be headed west instead of east,” Goodnight said, tone joking, meaning serious. He slid his hand under her hair to rest at the base of her neck and pressed his lips to her forehead, wondering if that would really be such a bad thing.

Augusta’s face said she wanted to know the same. There wasn’t so much fighting out west. They could take their most important belongings and build a house somewhere, and when the war had passed—if it ever passed—they could return to New Orleans where they belonged. But Augusta’s face also said she knew she was fighting a losing battle.

“I’ve packed you two blankets and more soup than you’ll ever want, but I figured it would carry best. And there’s paper in there too, so you won’t have that to use as an excuse not to write—” She choked at the last words and dropped her head. Goodnight used his free hand to pull her close, burying his face in her mane of curls. He could feel her heart beating against his; countless nights he’d lain with his head on her chest, listening to its gentle beat and using it to remind himself that he was home. He hoped she felt his too and knew it beat for her.

Muffled by her hair, he said, “This won’t last much longer. Georgia’s fallen, and Petersburg and Richmond must be close. Back by the end of the year, no doubt.”

Once Augusta would have accepted his word as Gospel, once when he'd reigned as a king, but now her features twisted as though in pain. She wanted to badly to believe him, he knew, and maybe she did mostly, but there was doubt. Goodnight couldn't blame her.

She ducked her head and flicked her eyes up at him from under her lashes. “I reckon we've already had our tender moment.”

“If I lived a hundred more years in a hundred more lifetimes, I could never have enough of you. I told you once, I have loved you with every breath that has left my body and every breath that I have yet to take. _Ma vie, ma vie,_ when will you realize this?”

There was something about the bumping of their noses that Goodnight had always adored, and because he knew it made her blush, he brushed them together as he teased at around lips. He waited for a scolding that their children were watching, but it never came, and when it didn’t, he pulled her as close as he could. Augusta had her hands on his cheeks as she kept him just far enough to see him. “ _Il y a longtemps que je t’aime.”_

 _“Jamais je ne t’oublierai,”_ Goodnight finished, brushing his finger over her cheek where a stripe of orange paint had rested the first time she’d sung this. Though the painting in the foyer said it was anything but, that day seemed like nothing more than a dream, one in which they had been young and free and waiting on the rest of their lives. Their life.

He kissed her lips, remembering that first taste of sugar and tea. It was a comfort he could remember that; even after all he’d seen and done, after all that he’d been away, he could remember these moments of them. When he pulled away, she gave him her Parisian-balcony smile, and he couldn’t help but return it. He’d never been able to deny her anything, be it a dress or a laugh.

 _Tu as le cœur à rire,_ as the song said—her heart was made for laughing.

When he looked back before he got too far down the drive, Beau had hold of one side of her skirt and Ginny rested on her hip, just as he'd always known them to do. All three waved, Beau excitedly, his whole body in it; Ginny hesitant and more beckoning him back; and Augusta in slow, graceful swoops. Ignoring the pang in his heart that told him not to go any further, Goodnight smiled and waved back.

If her heart was made for laughing, his heart was made for her.

* * *

Doing her best to ignore the terrifyingly gaping hole Goodnight had left in his wake, Augusta set about to returning life to how it had been before the winter. Always keeping the little silver revolver in a pocket tied around her waist, she went back to her daily chores, mildly surprised the house hadn’t fallen into disarray—lending taciturn Salome to have plenty to say about Augusta’s lack of faith—and February turned to a week into March without Augusta realizing. Fat Tuesday passed with hardly any notice other than an indulgence in their ever-shrinking food supply. Augusta wondered how long it would be before Beau and Ginny saw a Robicheaux Fat Tuesday ball; they seemed overly extravagant now, but they had been tradition.

When the first week of April passed as uneventfully as March, every child in the house begged to attend Easter Mass at St. Louis in New Orleans. Her sisters had scowled down their noses at the request that came in unison, obviously planned, and turned to Augusta. Whether they thought of her as in charge or if they wanted her to be the bearer of news, she didn’t know. Anastasie and Oceane would never agree to it, Salome tipping either way depending on her mood, but Augusta would admit that she wanted to get out of the house as much as the children; so she agreed that a week from that evening, on the sixteenth of April, they would put on whatever they considered their best and attend Easter Mass in the city.

Bedtime that night was a joyous occasion. By the time the nursery inhabitants were calm enough to get into their beds, Augusta too was in high enough spirits that she agreed to two stories. She was late getting to Mammy’s, but she had managed to put every child into a peaceful enough lull that they climbed into their respective beds with no complaint.

As Augusta untangled the mess Beau had made of his covers, she looked at her son, her sweet, beautiful baby, and saw the likeness of her husband, his dark blond hair, his perfectly discerning sharp blue eyes, which now watched her movements sleepily, though the laughter was not too far gone. She pulled Beau to her chest, kissing the top of his head, the curls she had given him, and felt warmth spread through her when he leaned into her touch. This was a mother’s sustenance, being able to feel in her arms her child, the flesh of her soul, the flesh of her husband’s soul.

“I love you,” Augusta whispered into his ear, drawing back from him so that she could see his face again. She cupped one of his cheeks in her hand, one of his round cheeks that had come from her.

He reached for her own face for his own bedtime kiss, and placing it upon her cheek, said, “I love you, Mama.”

Once she had him tucked away, she swept by Oceane coming to tuck in her two youngest, who had not yet aged out of the children’s room, and moved to where Ginny had already situated herself. Here was the daughter Goodnight had said they would have first, then hadn't wanted, the daughter he doted on to no end. If Beau was Goodnight's sun, then Ginny was his every twinkling star. Augusta brushed away a few of the curls that Goodnight so loved and bent to kiss her daughter’s forehead. “I love you. Good night, baby.”

“Good night, Mama,” Ginny repeated through a yawn. She turned her face just enough to kiss Augusta quickly, then seemed to feel guilty and kissed her again. Augusta hummed in amusement, knowing Ginny would be out before she could leave the room. Blowing out the candle next to Ginny’s bed, she kissed her once more and headed to Mammy’s cabin.

“So, you’re going to New Orleans for Easter,” Sam said before she’d even completely made it through the door.

“Am I arriving in time for a lecture,” Augusta answered, sharing a smirk with him. The pot of coffee whistled in the fireplace, and before Mammy could get up, Augusta had reached inside with her apron to take it out. They used dried and ground up peas in lieu of coffee beans, which came at such a pretty penny in New Orleans that Augusta had only bought it once in the past year—and used it all when Goodnight had been home. They’d all gagged over dandelion roots and peanuts until Augusta had said she didn’t like peas and that’s what they would get used to drinking. The sisters had stopped altogether, but Augusta sipped pea coffee with Sam’s family every night.

Sam watched her pour their drinks before she took a seat on the bend next to his sister. She raised her cup to her lips and regarded him over the edge. “No. I think it’ll be good for everyone to get out of here.” 

“Can I come too, Miss Augusta,” Ruth said immediately.

If Sam thought it was a good idea, then getting by Augusta would be the next step in getting Mammy’s ultimate approval. Augusta hummed at her eagerness and made sure not to look at Mammy as she said, “I don’t see why not. It’s important we’re all together on Easter.”

“You sure we’ll all be together? Ain’t one of your sisters who’ve stepped foot in that city since the Yankees came rolling in,” Mammy said. She gave Augusta a long look, which Augusta only returned with a shrug. She didn’t particularly care if her sisters came or stayed, although she did hope Anastasie would go back to the city, find it well off enough, and decided to stay. That was a long shot, she knew, but she hoped. She figured Salome would probably join them, and if the other two came, it would be only out of spite.

“Maybe Miss Anastsie and Miss Oceane will go and not come back,” Ruth said under her breath. The three of them knew Augusta did not mind them making fun of her sisters, but they always hesitated in saying it.

But Augusta tipped back her head with laughter, happy someone shared her wish, and even Sam snickered quietly. It seemed the only time they could laugh so freely was in this cabin with each other, and maybe that was part of the allure of these evenings that kept them up later than they should have stayed.

“Maybe the Yankees will pay enough attention to Oceane that she just has to do her part in the war and stay,” Augusta added. She figured Oceane was least likely to ever leave her alone; she’d always made an easy target for her sister, one Oceane had never been able to resist, and it was only with Sam’s family or Goodnight that she was ever able to speak against her.

“You know, we didn’t see anyone from Mobile for nearly a year after that one gentleman. Maybe Miss Salome will scare the Yankees right out of Louisiana,” Sam suggested. Augusta choked on her coffee, and Mammy snorted hers up her nose, and Sam laughed more at them than his own comment.

They continued like that until Augusta had tears rolling down her face and a lap full of pea coffee, her cheeks hurting from smiling so much. There wasn’t a day that went by where she didn’t wish Sam had taken his family and left before the war, but she was selfishly glad they had stayed. Even while they drank coffee made from peas and hid from her sisters, moments like this, relaxed and friendly, made her forget the war until she went back to an empty bed.

A scream, and then another, put a sudden halt to their laughter, and all four heads swiveled to the door. They knew those screams as easily as they knew each other’s names. Augusta sighed, wondering what creature had gotten into the house this time—the snake had been terrifying amusement—and she wearily heaved herself out of her chair when Oceane called her name. She stepped out of the cabin and around to the front of the house.

And then her blood ran cold. No creature had gotten into the house.

Steeling her nerves with a deep breath, she put on her most amiable face and walked quickly to greet the soldiers. There were about fifteen in all, each with a torch in their hands, each haggard men in blue coats, proud atop their horses but in a way much different than Southerners. His yellow mustache connected with his sideburns, chin shaved, the most decorated one halted in front of her and regarded Augusta with harsh dark eyes.

“Ma'am,” he said in his sharp, quick tongue, tone not entirely unpleasant, jerking his head. “Name’s Major Augustus Campbell.”

“Well imagine that,” Augusta drawled, smiling brightly. “How do you do, Major Augustus Campbell? I'm Augusta, Augusta Robicheaux.”

If there had been any friendly air between them, it immediately vanished, leaving a brittle feeling behind. Augusta’s smile faltered as she watched the soldiers exchange looks and snarl. _Robicheaux_ , they whispered. She cursed herself for giving her full name, exactly what Goodnight had wanted her to avoid, and more than anything she wished she could take it back and start over, introduce herself as Mrs. Augusta Evercreech.

“Robicheaux? You Mrs. _Goodnight_ Robicheaux,” the major asked, regarding her down his nose with those harsh eyes.

 _Augusta Evercreech,_ she wanted to say, but it was too late. She had told them her name, and they had recognized it. The only thing left to do was deny she was married to Goodnight.

Except that she was, and she was proud of that. 

* * *

Goodnight was back with the troops only a month before Lee surrendered. As well dressed as was possible after the strains of four years, the commander arrived at Appomattox Court House just after noon and waited. Half an hour later, General Grant made his appearance and wrote a letter to the Confederate general—not a treaty, but a letter. Two hours after his arrival, Lee mounted his horse and tipped his hat to Grant, and he returned to his thousands of men to confirm the rumor: the war was over. Soldiers were able to go home immediately with their weapons and animals.

Goodnight wasted no time in collecting his few belongings and setting his path back to Louisiana.

* * *

Goodnight rode through New Orleans on his way home, just to see after so long the city that raised him. It was quieter than he remembered, and a few Yankee men still walked the streets, but Goodnight could feel that all that would change. The war was over, and he was so close to home. He rode down St. Ann’s where Micah had wanted to put their restaurant toward Jackson Square when someone spotted him.

“Goodnight Robicheaux!” Ansel Delacroix boomed from down the street, hobbling forward with his whole leg and a crutch to shake Goodnight’s hand. Goodnight dismounted. “Aren't you a sight for sore eyes! Heard you had a new name now.”  
   
“As far as I know, name’s still Goodnight.” It was a relief to see a friendly face, considering Ames had been lost, as had Micah Magee, but there would be time for friends later. At that moment, Goodnight wanted his family. He wanted to see his two children running down the drive to him, followed by their mama, whose hair was likely to be falling out of her chignon by now, but Lord, if she wouldn’t be beautiful. They could invite their friends to Foxsong later, once they had been reunited finally, for good.  
   
“You ain't the Angel of Death?”  
   
“So I’ve been called,” he answered shortly. He wished he hadn’t dismounted; now he remembered how Ansel had been too attentive to Augusta, and that had bothered him. Ansel bothered him now.  
   
“Where—I shouldn’t ask—but where are you going to go now?”  
   
“What do you mean where am I going now?” Goodnight laughed through his irritation; Augusta would have gone mad with a man who asked senseless questions like that. “I’m going straight home to Foxsong and Augusta.”  
   
Immediately, Ansel came to a halt, and Goodnight turned to find him with an aghast expression. Ansel shook his head, looking at Goodnight as if he was a ghost.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to cut this in half before it got too long. I guess it's NSFW. I hope it's not.
> 
> End of April 1865-October 1867, the day Sam mentions in the movie.

_Day of wrath and doom impending,_

_David’s word and Sibyl’s blending,_

_Heaven and earth in ashes ending._

Not trusting his own feet to bring him closer, he found himself glad for the horse and pressed the it on faster, letting the dust fly up around them, listening as the hooves pounded a cadence. As the house at the end of the long drive came into sight, Goodnight felt his stomach sink. He’d heard what had happened to Foxsong, knew that it had happened some three weeks ago, but that didn't stop the dread that washed over him.

The once beautiful yard was overgrown, and two rocking chairs and the swing on the porch swayed slightly in the breeze, as if pushed by memories of the past. Goodnight looked up at what had been a magnificent house, the envy of the state, and even after all he’d seen, he was not prepared for the wreckage. What remained of his pure white house was blackened with soot. If Goodnight had loved anything besides his wife and children, he had loved Foxsong. And it was ruined.

Without bothering to tether his horse, Goodnight slipped out of the saddle and onto the overgrown grass of his front lawn. He took a few steps toward the house, the ruin, when his foot passed over something hard. It glittered in the sun, and Goodnight stooped to inspect it. His fingers were met with the little silver revolver that'd he'd given her before he left, warm in his touch from the late spring sun. Pushing aside the thought of why it was in the yard, Goodnight stuffed it into his waistband before skipping every two steps to the landing, and in a single stride reached the tall doorway. With quaking knees, he crossed the threshold into the foyer. He wished he'd never decided to come here. He wished he'd never left in the first place.

Inside, the house was reduced to nothing but ash, the second floor caved in and a gaping hole in the center of the ceiling. The lucky columns lining the hall were only half standing. Their walls, which had once been golden and had shone radiantly in the setting sun, were blackened, without even a trace of their beauty left, and his boots left a trail in his wake as he shuffled through what had been his house. He paused to finger the remaining half of the painting Augusta had done by the creek all those years ago. Ten years ago, he had watched her at the easel as she painted and sang with childlike joy, and he had been enraptured by the way she moved and the expressions on her face. The floors creaked and moaned as he turned away, and part of him hoped he would fall through the floor. Now more than ever, he wanted to turn and run; he didn’t even remember what had compelled him to come here.

“Augusta,” he called, knowing good and well that she wouldn’t answer. He thought back to all the times he’d come home and called her name, remembered how she would come to him with a pitter-patter of soft steps and sweeping of many starched petticoats; he remembered wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her to him. How once Beau had learned to walk, he too would come running at the sound of his father calling his mother. How Augusta had looked at them when Goodnight swept his children into his arms.

Goodnight meandered into the parlor, half dimmed by the part of the ceiling that remained. In a basket by the fireplace, children’s toys remained sooty and singed, but rather untouched. Here he had lain in the floor, on his back with Beau balancing on his knees, his son squealing with laughter each time Goodnight pretended to drop him. Augusta would sit on the sofa with Beau on her lap, and he would plant his little kisses on her nose, or on her forehead like he’d seen his father do so many times. And he'd spent countless evenings reading to Ginny by the fire, or holding her fingers as she tried to walk much earlier than Beau had done, or sitting down at the piano as she waited on him expectantly. Before his children had come, he’d lain with his head in Augusta’s lap in the evenings while she ran her fingers through his hair or read aloud. At Christmas, the children had climbed all over her, making a mess of her hair, but she had laughed beautifully, and he’d known she was loving every minute of it. He’d thought at the time that when the war was over, he’d come home, and they would have more of their own, and he would join in the evening tumble. He lingered, even though he did not want to.

Unlike the porch, Goodnight climbed the first steps at the end of the hall one at a time until he reached the landing where the stairs parted on either side to nothing. He could see all of it, him following Augusta up the right side when they’d decided to finally go to bed. Beau, in his infinite excitement, getting his head stuck in the railing, and how Sam had almost been laughing too hard to be of any use freeing him; Augusta had been as close to hysterical as he’d ever seen. Goodnight had kept his back to her so she couldn’t see him laughing too; he almost smiled at the memory.

The right wing had completely collapsed into a heap of rubble onto the floor below. Their scorched wardrobe lay overturned in the ashes and debris, where there had been the dining room and library. Coming back down the stairs, Goodnight lifted it upright as if that could fix things, and its contents spilled out of the doors. Layer after layer of beautiful fabric sprawled desecrated across the floor in a reminder of the battle that had been lost. Not caring about the soot that covered his hands, Goodnight knelt to gently picked one up, as if it could catch fire again at any moment.

Fingering the once rich fabric, he traced the flowery pattern, still faintly visible, over the skirt, up the bodice and across the sleeve, remembering how she had looked in it while she sat under the willow with a book, he surprised at her presence and trying unsuccessfully to focus on fishing. One by one, small wet dots appeared, and he pressed the dress to his face in an attempt to keep himself contained. He gathered more of it into his arms and let out a choked gasp. Her things, her beautiful things, cast down so horridly, set aflame. It took all his willpower, but Goodnight lowered the dress and raised his eyes, his gaze falling on a metal box across the floor. He crawled, hands and knees, across the sooty beams and piles of ash until he reached it.

It was her letter box, with every one that he had written, even before they’d married. The first read from the sixth of June 1856; the last was from thirtieth of March 1865.

_Low I kneel, with heart’s submission,_

_See, like ashes, my contrition,_

_Help me in my last condition._

God, what had he done? He’d insisted it would only be a few months; he’d insisted everything would be perfectly fine when he came home. He could have bought his way out, or he could have blockaded like Ames had wanted. When the war had continued, he could have run like they’d talked about. But instead, he’d left her to this—to the companionship of all three sisters and the utter destruction of their entire life.

He stood, unmoving, and kept watching his desecrated house, the empty entry, the demolished stairs, his heart beating faster with every moment that she didn't come gliding down to him. They could start over now that the war was over. Their home and most of their souls were gone, but if she would just come to him, come to him in that lovely, breathtaking way, he would take her hand and not let go, and they could start over. Leave the rubble and war and sadness all behind, because how could they ever be sad again if they were together?

But no matter how long he kept staring, no sign of a little black-haired woman appeared, nor did any traces of a sunny little boy or his quiet sister.

Goddamn, what had he  _done_?

If this was what he came home to, what had been the point? What had the last five years been about, what had the last five years taken from him?

This was more than he'd ever offered.

Goodnight closed his eyes, wondering if he was dreaming, but when he opened them, the same sight was still there. Nothing had changed. His world lay in ruins.

Somewhere, in the ashes and the rubble, his heart was there too.

_Ah! that day of tears and mourning,_

_From the dust of earth returning_

_Man for judgement must prepare him_

Unable to control himself, he sank to his knees at the place where he’d been born and the place where he’d planned to die with his family around him. No longer could he ignore how tight his throat was, how his eyes itched, the empty feeling that had invaded. Slowly his shoulders began to shake, and he didn’t bother to try to stop them. He let the torrent of tears flow freely, dripping off his cheeks and soaking the ground that he should not even think to stand on. He clutched her box, the closest thing he had to her, and nearly dented it as he writhed.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Augusta,” he sobbed. “This is my—my retribution. I’m sorry I brought it on you.”

Among a failed future and another nightmare, he watched as his life faded before him until it was nothing more than a bit of bricks and singed hopes. He wished he hadn't come here, where he could still feel her, where he could still hear Beau shrieking with laughter, where Ginny still beckoned him to the piano. He wished he hadn't come here at all.

How long it took for him to compose himself, he had no idea, but Goodnight eventually swiped a sleeve across his blackened nose, and when that was not adequate, reached for his handkerchief, just as tattered from the strains of war as everything else. “I’m sorry, Augusta. For everything.” A fresh wave of sorrow washed over him, and his eyes prickled. “I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to stay here or run.”

The small revolver that he'd found in the yard hung heavily on his hip.

He had nothing. He had no wife, no children, not even his parents or sister. His entire way of life was gone, and his home was in ruins. He had nothing but a head full of voices and the clothes on his back, soiled with so much blood and guilt. Nothing but the revolver on his hip, which was growing heavier by the moment.

There was no one to know. He could die out here, and no one would know what became of the Goodnight Robicheaux.

Slowly his hand slid down to rest at his hip and rested on the butt of the gun. His thumb traced over the smooth surface. One bullet, that's all it would take; he surely knew how to kill. One bullet, and he would be here forever.

He pulled it from his waistband.

One bullet, and he could be with Augusta. He could see his children, never have to worry about them again.

He ran his thumb over the barrel.

“Mr. Goodnight!” called a voice from outside, or what would be the outside, and Goodnight raised his head at the approaching footsteps. On the man’s face he saw the same solemn expression of regret and sadness that was somewhere inside himself, somewhere beneath the all layers of pain. “Mr. Goodnight, I... I’d hoped I could stop you from seeing this.”

“Well, you didn’t.” He didn't take his hand off his gun, but for a moment, he felt guilty; he could never let Sam see him like this. And then he felt a glimmer of hope. “Augusta, the children, are they with you?”

Without missing a beat, Sam’s eyes flicked down to what was in Goodnight’s hand, and again Goodnight felt a flash of guilt because Sam was too discerning for his own good. “Why don't you hand that to me?”

“It's mine,” Goodnight said, as if it made a difference, but it was all he had; it wasn't even his, it was Augusta's.

Sam hadn't answered his question.

“I'm not arguing that. But I'd like to talk without you waving it around, no matter how good of a shot you are.”

Goodnight scoffed. “Just let me do it, Sam.”

“Give me the gun.”

He wanted so badly to pull the trigger, but he couldn't with Sam standing there. Not after all he'd done for them. Sam, never one to give up, stood there in front of him with such a hard expression that Goodnight felt like a child in front of a stern teacher, and like a child, he held it away from him. “Why?”

“Because it's what Miss Augusta would want me to do.”

Letting the gun fall limp in his hand, Goodnight sat back on his butt and folded his arms around his knees, feeling as though he'd just been hit in the gut. “Sam, what…oh, damnation,” Goodnight swore, and wiped at his eyes again to no avail.

“What happened?” Sam asked, and Goodnight nodded, not trusting his voice. Sam shifted from foot to foot. “You want a drink? I have some back at the cabin.”

“That would the best goddamn thing I’ve heard in a long time.” Wiping his hands on dirty pants, he picked himself up off the ashes with great effort. As he took hold of the railing, he casted one last look to the house, filled with so much love and hate that he didn't understand how it was possible _,_ and followed Sam to the cabin. 

_Spare, O God, in mercy spare him_

* * *

When Mammy saw him, she forgot all propriety and wrapped him in a crushing hug, tears already leaving red streaks down her face. “Oh, Mr. Goodnight. My baby’ll be so glad you're home. She'll be so glad the war’s over. Just you wait until she and those children see you, they'll be so excited. My baby, she's going to be so happy.”

Behind Mammy, Goodnight watched Sam shut his eyes tightly and look away. He poured two glasses of whiskey, jerking his head toward a chair for Goodnight to sit.

“Miss Augusta had saved us twice. I guess it was just a ‘third time’s the charm’ sort of thing. For the Yankees, that is.” Sam raised his eyebrows and took a swig from his glass. “Twice they came by. She gave them a meal, tended their injuries, treated them like they were old friends. She’d say, ‘I hope that wherever he is, someone is treating my husband like this.’ And by then she’d buttered them up enough that they just left. 

“Third time they came, about fifteen of them, Miss Augusta put the children to bed and came out here like usual. It was real late, but none of us had any intentions on going to bed, not me or Ma or Miss Augusta. We were just sitting here talking when Miss Oceane and Miss Anastasie got to hollering for Miss Augusta to hurry. So she did, she went out to meet them, just smiling away.

“When I got there, I could tell she was scared. The major asked her name, and I think he was surprised, but he didn’t like when she told him Robicheaux. He asked, ‘Robicheaux? You Mrs. Goodnight Robicheaux?’” Sam swirled his liquor around his glass and refused to meet Goodnight’s eyes. “Well you know Miss Augusta couldn't play poker worth a damn, and her face gave him his answer. All of a sudden, they're all off their horses.

“Miss Anastasie and Miss Oceane were running around in the yard doing nothing but screaming, and Miss Salome was standing there in the door with the fiercest scowl I've ever seen. I don't know how any of them managed the courage to get past her, the way she was snarling and snapping. She followed a few inside just beating her fists against their backs. And Miss Augusta, she stood there and tugged on the major’s sleeves, begged them to spare us.

“Next thing we know, there was a bang, and Miss Anastasie fell over before any of us could do a thing. And while everyone was trying to understand what had just happened—you'll never believe this—one of those Yankees took a bullet to the head.”

Sam closed his eyes and tilted his head to the ceiling. His mother and sister were sniffling in the corner, grasping tightly onto each other, but Sam didn't pay them any mind.

“Miss Augusta was standing there with your little revolver smoking in her hands and a look of pure hate like I'd never seen on her face. Where she even got that thing, I've got no idea, but she sure was a tough bird when she needed to be. But then all hell broke loose. Everyone was screaming, and you know how good Miss Oceane was at that, then Miss Salome shrieked something fierce from inside. And that caught Miss Augusta’s attention, and she stood there for a moment before she went tearing inside calling out to her children.

“I came to get the wagon, and Miss Oceane made it to the barn with a few of the children. I gave her the gun we hid in there and told her to get the things from our cabin and I went back to the house with a gun. There was a lot of screaming, Miss Salome, Miss Augusta, the children who hadn't gotten past the Yankees.”

At this, Sam laughed. “They were all screaming, but Miss Salome was still calling every single thing a bitch. ‘Get your filthy hands off me, you rotten Yankee sonuvabitch!’ And then I heard Miss Augusta shriek, ‘Damn you!’ and I felt sorry for whoever was on the receiving end because you know that when she started yelling, someone was in trouble.” Sam laughed again, but it sounded choked.

“Can’t tell you how many were in the hall. I tried to get to them, but there was one of me, and I'm not the shot you are. And then Miss Salome is really screaming. ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch, you sons of bitches!’ They had her in her shift, all torn up and bloody, with a rope around her neck, heading out the door. She was still calling them bitches when they kicked the chair from under her feet.”

Sam covered his face. “There was Miss Salome, swinging from the oak. She’d always been so ornery, but I never…The war did something to her. Her two daughters saw it. The Yankees shot them before they got a full wail out, and then I shot them. And upstairs Miss Augusta just kept yelling ‘Damn you, damn you!’ The next thing I know, the one still upstairs came running down the steps and suddenly house is on fire.

“I don't think Miss Oceane had ever driven a wagon before. Something had spooked the horses—probably Miss Oceane herself—and the wagon was streaking across the yard and down the drive with everyone still alive except Miss Anastasie’s middle boy, Miss Augusta, Mr. Beau, Miss Ginny, and Miss Oceane’s own youngest two.”

Goodnight poured himself another glass, struggling not to slosh the alcohol out with his shaking hands. “Did Augusta...did…”

Sam closed his eyes. His voice grew quieter with every word. “We don’t know. We came back. Poor Miss Salome was still swinging, but there was so much rubble and the house is too unstable for us to dig around. We haven’t found them, and they haven't shown up anywhere.”

“Beau and Ginny?”

“I have a feeling that boy is exactly where his mama is. And Miss Ginny isn't far off from him.”

That was the last brick. There was no one left. “Goddamn...this is all my fault.”

“There’s not a bit of this that’s your fault, Mr. Goodnight,” Sam said quickly, shifting in his chair so that he faced him. “Don’t say that. You know what Miss Augusta would think.”

“Well, Sam, she’s not here, and she not coming back.” He covered his mouth to contain a sob. “I did this.”

Sam shook his head and pushed Goodnight’s shoulder so that he had to look at him. “Goodnight Robicheaux, you can’t say that.”

But Goodnight could only bury his face in his hands. “That was everything I had. My home, my children. _Ma vie_. I built everything around them, I did everything for them. But it’s all gone, gone in that fire. It’s all in ashes.”

“No, no. She hid whatever she thought was important out here, said no one would think to rob this place. It's under the bed there, in that green trunk. I brought it back in case you came.”

If only to have something to occupy his hands and mind, Goodnight moved for the trunk, a wedding gift from her parents. One by one, he gently lifted the contents. From the very top, he pulled out a handkerchief bundled up, and when he untied it, Augusta's rings were laying in the middle, still shiny and beautiful. Goodnight picked them up and rolled them over in his fingers. _29 April 185_ 7\. _Ma vie._

Then came the small album with their wedding photograph, the one of Beau’s christening, Fat Tuesday the following year, Ginny’s christening. Two of the teal cotton handkerchiefs he'd given her on their second anniversary. Here were their favorite books and the terrible painting of the dog they'd bought in Paris because it made them laugh, and Goodnight had to laugh again that they'd made her cut. Their fine family silver. In a box with cedar branches were their wedding attire, and at the very bottom, beneath everything, she'd hidden their wallet. Goodnight peeked inside and had to let himself be impressed. Either she'd been extremely frugal, or their smuggling had been more profitable than he realized.

As Goodnight leaned against the chest, drink still in hand, Sam said, “We’re heading up to Kansas, Ma, Ruth, and me.” Sam put a hand on Goodnight’s shoulder. “Come with us. I—”

Goodnight cut him off with a shake of his head. At the moment, all he wanted was to drink himself under the table and never get up. “What is there for me in Kansas?”

“All due respect, there's as much for you there as there is here.” Sam held out another glass of whiskey.

“I spent my life looking after Miss Augusta. She was a blessing after those three girls, and she was as much a sister to me as Ruth is. She was kind; she taught me to read, taught me to write. She was my friend. And you came along, and she found her calling, to take care of you and those children of yours. I spent my life looking after her, and she wanted to spend hers looking after you. It’s the only way I know to honor her memory. And truth be told, I’m afraid she may come back and haunt me if I don’t do this.” Goodnight scoffed, but Sam continued. “I lost everything in the fire too. And then there you were in those ashes.”

Finally Goodnight raised his head from his glass. His face was unshaven, gaunt, thinned from maturity and the rigors of war, his eyes red and distant. He was covered in soot and ashes from head to toe, the only clean part of his body where the tears had washed away the grime. Where he’d once sprawled out gracefully, he was now slumped over in the floor of Mammy’s cabin, reduced to no more than a skinny man in tattered clothes.

He thought to ten years ago, when he’d come home from Charleston to a party. If he’d known then what he knew now, he would have waltzed up to that little black-haired girl as soon as she’d gotten out of the carriage, introduced himself, and asked to marry her on the spot, anything to give him more time. He would have stayed home from the war and watched his boy grow up and find a girl of his own, watched his daughter blossom into the belle of New Orleans. Maybe he would have shot the Yankees from the balcony of Foxsong; maybe he would have taken his family west. But he would kiss her every chance he got. He would spend part of every day with her under the willow, with her back to his chest and his chin on her shoulder. He’d let Beau sit in the saddle in front of him whenever he rode his horse until he was big enough for his own and play every single song that Ginny requested until his hands gave out. But he could not do these things.

“I’ve spent nearly ten years trying to make her proud of me. That's a third of my life." 

“She was proud of you. Lord, was she proud of you! And you’ve got years to make sure it would stay that way.” Sam gave his shoulder a shake. “Come to Kansas with me. We’ll make her proud yet.”

* * *

The first thing Goodnight thought when he saw Aurore was that it needed a fresh coat of paint.

He'd agreed to go to Kansas with Sam and his family, but then he'd remembered Mathilde alone at Aurore, and he'd started making plans of his own. Maybe—just maybe—they could turn Aurore into something like the old days. They'd give it a nice coat of bright yellow paint, do the trim in blue, get new green shutters. He would tear down Foxsong, or burn it completely to the ground, and he and Mathilde could live together scandalously at Aurore, planting cotton and sugar until one day they had two sprawling plantations.

But as Goodnight and Sam got closer, Aurore seemed quiet, odd for the sunny little Creole house. Goodnight had expected to see the housekeeper or gardener, but no one came. Even as he dismounted his horse, Mathilde did not come out to greet him.

“Mattie,” Goodnight called, pausing with his reins in hand to give her time to answer, but nothing came. “Mathilde?”

Silence.

Only half-aware of Sam dismounting too, Goodnight tossed his reins haphazardly over the hitching post and said, “Maybe she's gone into New Orleans.”

“Why don't you wait here,” Sam said, and Goodnight shot him a sharp look. How could Sam say something like that? Mathilde was all he had left, besides Ruth, Mammy, and Sam himself. There was no Mama, no Valentine, Ames and Micah and half the parish were dead, his wife and children had disappeared with the dust; there was only Mathilde.

But Goodnight's stomach flipped erratically. Mathilde had no reason that he could think of to go to the city, unless she'd wanted to meet him. There should have been some kind of sound here, this was Aurore, home to Ames and Mathilde. Yet there was no sign of Mathilde.

Like before the war, Goodnight didn't knock when he opened the door, more out of worry than ease, and strode into the foyer, which stretched the length of the house with the rooms on either side opening into it and onto the wraparound porch. A fine, thin coating of dust had settled about the furniture, the floor. Goodnight and Sam left faint footprints behind them, and Goodnight strained to see any others besides theirs. “Mattie?”

“She came by just last week,” Sam muttered under his breath, but Goodnight didn’t make any reply. Each taking one side, they made their way through each room, in one and out to the next, until it was clear that Mathilde had not been there in days. Once they’d reached the far end of the house, Goodnight stopped in Mathilde’s sitting room and glanced up at the ceiling as if it held the answers; Sam lingered in the dining room, gazing out one of the full-length windows that made up the walls.

“We can ride up tomorrow. I’ll hunt for Mattie if you want to get the supplies you need. She’s probably gone up to wait on me, or maybe she’s going to move to the city permanently until she can figure out how to start growing again. I’ll tell you what, it’ll take every man left in the parish to keep this place alone going, but I’ll run some num—Sam? Hey, Sam,” Goodnight said, noticing that whatever was outside had Sam's undivided attention. His mouth hanging open, Sam startled from the window and turned wide eyes to Goodnight, who felt his stomach drop. His lips twitched in a failed effort to smile. “Sam, what's—”

“Why don't we head home,” Sam said, cutting him off, doing his best to appear unfazed by whatever he'd seen. He moved quickly to Goodnight’s side. Goodnight twisted his shoulder out of his grip.

“What's the matter?” If Sam hadn't tried to block his path, Goodnight wouldn't have thought anything too much of it, but Sam stepped in front of him as he tried to move, and Goodnight's stomach dropped. He pushed Sam out of the way and strode to where Sam had been looking out the window.

And then he was running, not thinking, just running. Running out the door and down the back steps, running to the live oak in the backyard. Even while he ran, he withdrew the revolver from his belt and fired once, twice, three times.

He scooped her up as he sank to his knees, breathless, heart pounding, his mouth uncontrollably babbling, “Mattie, Mattie, oh, Mattie, honey, no no no, please honey, no, Mattie, Mattie, Mattie…” He brushed at her hair and kissed her forehead and held her form to his chest as he begged for it not to be true. He was home like she wanted. He’d come home to stay and she could forgive him and they could be a family again. He needed her to forgive him.

After what could have been hours or minutes, Sam laid a hand on Goodnight’s shoulder, and knowing what was about to come, Goodnight clutched Mathilde closer. She was here and solid, and he was able to weep over her body for those he could not. He twisted away from Sam and covered Mathilde with his body until Sam pried him away.

* * *

After that, they spent four days in New Orleans before they were ready to leave.

The first day, Sam made ten little wooden crosses and planted them in the ground behind the house while Goodnight sorted through his remaining possessions. He wanted to take all of them. Anything she had touched, anything she'd thought about, suddenly became more precious than all the jewels at Adler’s. But the wagon would not hold so much, and so he sorted. He would take the box of letters and their photographs, _Hard Times_ and her favorites from Melville. He sobbed over her wedding dress and veil until he thought he would rip them to shreds with all his writhing, and then he put them away. He had no use for any of her jewelry, but he put her rings into the tin with his photographs anyway.

When he went to see what Sam had done, he read each name that had been carved across them: Salome and her two girls, Posie and Cosette; Oceane’s two young boys, Jules and Alexandre; and Anastasie and her youngest son, Furcy. Then he’d reached the three names that he couldn’t bear to read, and he’d ripped those crosses from the ground and tossed them to the side and didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day.

That night he pulled out the photo album and thumbed through. In the front were old family photographs from before they'd married. His father stood tall and straight, and Valentine looked like a docile house cat instead of the lion she'd been. In the Evercreech one, the girls sat together as though they were the best of friends. It was an old photograph, one Augusta had told him they'd gotten just before Anastasie was married, and he believed her; Augusta, sitting at Salome’s feet, looked no more than eight, hardly bigger than Ginny had been, and if the sisters hadn't been there, Goodnight would have thought it was Ginny. Then came the wedding photos, first Ames’s, then Goodnight’s. Those stood out among the others for the mere fact that they all wore silly, foolish smiles, Goodnight because Augusta had smiled at him, Ames and Mathilde likely because they'd succeeded.

On the second day, Goodnight sat at the trunk Augusta had hidden away in the cabin and sorted through it again. He pulled from the album every photograph that would fit into his little tin that had seen him through the war. Then he tucked that into his breast pocket and crawled back onto the cot they'd scavenged from another cabin for him. Sam smoked the meat from the remaining sow. Mammy told Goodnight they'd need to buy fabric for her to make him new suits, but he didn't say anything. He wanted to put on his wedding suit and crawl under one of Sam’s crosses.

The third day, they loaded everything that would fit into the wagon. They collapsed Mammy’s kitchen table and the four chairs around it. All his sorting amounting to nothing because he kept everything she'd put in it, Goodnight heaved the green trunk into the back of the wagon and gave Sam his most defiant look as he dared Sam to say he couldn't bring it. But Sam merely settled it among the other things without a blink of his eye.

Goodnight left them to pack the rest while he walked once more over the southern field. The overgrown grass swished against his legs annoyingly. He wanted to take a sword and hack it all away, or perhaps set a torch to it so that it matched the house—as if it would make any difference. He walked over the southern field as he had done so many times before but with a lighter heart. He'd made this journey daily for almost a week in hope that he would catch her; with his son on his shoulders and his arm around his wife, daughter asleep against her chest, he'd walked this path on the day before he first left. He knew the pathway like the back of his hand because it had been his one true place of solace and comfort.

When he reached the creek, Goodnight looked out over the ground. In the breeze, the branches of the willow reached out and brushed against his back, and he was vaguely aware of it. But his eyes stayed focused ahead, across the expanse of the creek, waiting for her to hop, hop, hop across the stones. At his feet, the water lapped lazily, sometimes splashing onto his boots and washing away that ash, and he imagined he could hear the work songs from the fields drifting down to him. The wind blew again, and the willow scratched at his clothing.

He kept watching the land across the creek, his heart beating faster with every moment that she didn't skip down the bank and hop, hop, hop across the rocks. But she did not come to him from Saltmore Hall.

So he tacked his note to the tree and stepped back to look at it. Once he'd tacked another paper to the tree and pressed closer to her than ever before as he covered her ears and felt her body ricochet into his from the kick of the rifle. Now, though, his paper held a different meaning.

_Ma vie, I'm going to Lincoln with Sam and his family. Come find me. I'll wait for you, always._

For a while Goodnight stood there, watching the water jump over rocks in the creek and lap at the shore. The day was as mild as her temper and as sunny as his boy, and the branches of the willow draped down as if to hold him there forever. He could stay there forever as long as he felt them, and he did feel them.

Goodnight closed his eyes. For once, he didn't hear cannons or smell smoke, but he wasn't sure if he'd prefer that to his children’s laughter or Augusta’s sweetly startling, “Good day, Mr. Robicheaux!” As his heart dropped lower than he ever thought possible, he considered drawing the revolver from his hip, but his fingers felt heavy, and something told him they wouldn't work.

As he turned to leave, he casted one last look to the willow tree and the creek, filled with so much love and hate that he didn't understand how it was possible _._ And then he turned back around and set up the path for one last time.

And on the fourth day, on an early morning in late May, they set their path for New Orleans. Goodnight saddled Augusta’s little gray mare, a good deal smaller than he was used to, and a good deal easier to handle, which was why Goodnight thought Augusta should be riding her instead. But instead, he climbed into the saddle.

He followed the wagon across the yard and toward the drive, away from Foxsong. He considered a backward glance, but he knew there was nothing for him there.

* * *

When the maid answered the door, it was as if nothing had changed. Of course, before the war, Goodnight doubted he would have ever thought about setting foot in this house. Augusta had often grumbled about attending parties here during Mardi Gras, and on more than one occasion, she had come up with a good enough excuse to miss one—which was usually, “Please, Goody, I don’t want to go, let’s don’t go, let’s stay home tonight.”

Yet here he was, gazing around the foyer of the Pajuds’ townhouse. The checkerboard floor was dull but clean, and the marble statue that had once stood between the double stairs was gone. The clock remained standing but did not tick. Goodnight watched the still pendulum and waited for it to move, but it never did. The Yankees must have gotten to it too.

“Goodnight,” came a gasp, drawing his attention away from the clock. There had been one in the foyer and parlor and library at Foxsong, and once he’d been old enough to wind them, he’d done so every Tuesday morning. He wanted to wind it now if it meant he wouldn’t have to face her.

Oceane, adding insult to injury. She stood at the top of the stairs, gazing over the banister like she was seeing a ghost, and maybe she was. Maybe she was seeing all those that were following him.

“Augusta, is she with you,” she asked breathlessly, scooping her skirts up as she hurried down the stairs. Her hair was falling down much in the same way that her sister’s had, but Goodnight would have been lying if he’d said she wasn’t beautiful. While her face had thinned, it had given her a more defined look, though now she looked as though she were a marble statue come to life instead of a woman stepping out of a painting. Her blue eyes watered.

“Haven’t seen a trace of them.” As much as he felt obliged to be friendly with Oceane, he couldn’t bring himself to make his voice warm or do anything other than glower. Anastasie and Salome were dead, and Augusta… But Oceane was fine.

He expected her to dissolve in a round of wails, loud and obscene as usual, but instead her lip wobbled no matter how she clenched her jaw, and she raised her hands to cover her face; if she’d had black hair and green eyes, Goodnight would have watched the scene before. When she dropped her hands, tears fell quietly from her eyes as she whispered, “It’s my fault, all my fault.”

“Oceane, don’t be—”

“Stop it,” she snapped, voice still soft, a fierce, hateful look in her beautiful gaze. It made him sick to see that no matter their differences, Oceane could make Salome’s look too. “She...she hated me. I was a horror to her all those years, and she hated me for it, but she took us in. She kept us fed and kept us safe and now she’s just gone, my baby sister is just gone.

“I’m so sorry, Goodnight.”

“You don’t owe me the apology,” he snarled before he could catch the words. But he didn’t feel guilty when they left his mouth, at least, not much because Oceane was right. For years he’d listened to horror stories about growing up with Oceane as an older sister, and he’d watched as she had done everything in her power to humiliate and belittle Augusta as adults. It was Oceane’s face Augusta had imagined when he’d taught her to shoot, and Oceane who she’d griped about in every letter she’d written, be it pages or a single sentence. With as much hatred as she would ever be able to muster, Augusta had hated Oceane.

Yet here was Oceane, standing in front of him as alive and well as before 1861.

Out of everyone, it had to be Oceane.

At least she had the decency to be guilty.

“Won’t you come in and have a seat,” she asked suddenly, motioning behind her to the parlor as if remembering manners could still exist. No matter his own manners and proper upbringing, Goodnight couldn’t accept the offer. He couldn’t find it in him to sit on the sofa across from Oceane and chat gaily over tea as though nothing had happened—although something would have had to happen if he was voluntarily having tea with Oceane. He didn’t want to pretend like he didn’t see anything besides a bully when he looked at her.

Before he could answer, there came a cry of, “Uncle Goody!” Then came the stampede of excited children, the ones who had made it out, and deep inside him, there was a little flicker of something when he felt them pressing against him. The corners of his lips quivered, and he pressed one hand to Theodore’s back, the other to Solomon’s, trying to find some comfort in their warmth. Theodore, now nearly as tall as Goodnight, pulled back enough to look at him.

“Is Aunt Augusta with you, Uncle Goody,” he asked, owlish eyes just as earnest as his aunt’s had been. Goodnight ran his hand over the back of the boy’s head. He would be seventeen soon, too old to be looking at him with the same childish hope that shined in the faces of his much-younger cousins; at least, he thought with some comfort, the war had not taken the stammering, owlish boy who’d stood in awe in his library.

“No,” Goodnight said, “but when you see her, make sure she comes to find me in Lincoln. Can you do that?”

Theodore nodded immediately, and Goodnight knew he would spend his days waiting on his aunt so that he could send word. Too naive, too trusting. How wonderful it must have been to spend the last few years hidden from the world behind a gentle voice and yards of skirts. Goodnight wished that was where he’d spent the war, wished that was where he would watch Louisiana rebuild. But he would be leaving for the last time, and that’s why he was here.

Withdrawing from them, Goodnight pulled the wallet from his coat pocket and began to open it. “How much do you need?”

Never before had he batted an eye at spending money, but he felt a flash of hatred as he began to count it out, and he had to remind himself that it was for the children. He was giving the money Augusta had worked so hard for to the children—not his children, but his nieces and nephews who Augusta had adored and been adored by in return. He was not giving the money to _Oceane_.

“Oh, Goody, don't worry about that. Julien will be home in a week or so, and we can make it until then.” Oceane didn't seem to register her words until after she'd said them. Her face screwed up, and she ducked her head. “Goody, I'm so sorry. I didn't—I can't—I should have stayed.”

“You and me both,” he muttered, and Oceane turned her face up to him. While her face had thinned, it had given her a more defined look, and she was still beyond beautiful, though now she looked as though she were a marble statue come to life instead of a woman stepping out of a painting. Her hair, that dark red hair, was pinned neatly and framed her cheeks just so; her blue eyes watered.

“Goody, you don't understand—”

“I understand just fine, Oceane.” He didn't remember ever speaking to someone like that, his voice so hard and hollow and far from normal. But he understood that Oceane was alive, and Anastasie and Salome were dead, and his Augusta was gone. Oceane was alive and beautiful and living in her New Orleans home, carrying on like nothing had happened.

“She was so different with you. She loved you so, and—”

“Here's ten dollars, that should help until Julien gets here. I'm going to Kansas with Sam and his family if you need anything.” He offered, but the hardness of his voice said, _Don't need anything_.

For once in her life, Oceane didn't fuss. She let out a defeated sigh and took the coins Goodnight offered, and he let himself out.

“My baby’s not going to like us leaving her here,” Mammy said when he reached the wagon, one last attempt to convince them to stay until her baby came. Sam didn't say a word, just flicked his wrist and stared straight ahead as the wagon rumbled forward.

* * *

“She thought Augusta was still alive?”

Hearing Billy say that sends a sharp pang through Goodnight's chest. At the time, he'd been angry with Mammy and had wanted to yell at her. He wanted to scream about how she could be so stupid. Hadn't she seen that their whole world was in ashes right in front of her? She had been there, not him, hadn't she seen how their world had crumbled under the blaze? How could she be so stupid to think Augusta would come to them?

But he never did. He’d hardened his face and turned away so that they couldn't see. He never said any of those things because Augusta had loved them, and a part of him hoped right alongside Mammy that Augusta would come waltzing out of what was left of the house, Ginny on her hip and Beau clinging to her skirt. She would see the note, brush the ashes off their clothes, and follow after them.

Hearing Billy say that reminds him of that little part of him that had believed the same thing.

“Mammy raised Gus from the day she was born, that was her sole purpose in life. Sometimes I think she knew less than I did about what to do. After she was free, she didn't even consider leaving her baby Gussa, and in a way, I'm thankful for that, it gave Gus a friendly face during the war.”

They're sitting on the bottom ledge of the steeple, everyone else having run off at Red’s words for final preparations. Goodnight swings his legs back and forth, and if his head hadn't been hanging so low, anyone could have thought they were casually conversing. As always, though, Billy knows differently, correctly. His hand finds its way to the base of Goodnight's neck and gently tugs at his hair, a gentle tug from Louisiana back to Rose Creek, and Goodnight restrains himself from leaning into the touch. Instead, he takes the cigarette from Billy’s other hand, surprised he hasn’t used all of them yet.

“You look tired, Goody,” Billy says in his low, almost gravelly voice. He meets Goodnight's gaze with his pained, steady one, and his fingers flit at Goodnight's collar. “Why don't you try to get some sleep before dinner.”

Ignoring the wish to collapse onto Billy, Goodnight nods, hopping off the ledge with a thud, followed by Billy’s silent drop. He leaves Billy at the door and walks the path to the hotel alone.

The journey to Kansas had been hard. Mammy always talked about Augusta and the children despite how much it pained everyone. While Ruth always cried and Sam had let his shoulders droop, Goodnight hadn't been able to listen. He would ride ahead or behind the wagon on his own, out of range of Mammy’s voice, or if they were camped, he’d offer to look for firewood. Anything to keep from hearing their names, anything to keep them from his mind.

At night, Mammy always asked him about Augusta, if he remembered this or that, how Augusta liked alligator, how she liked to read by the fire, and always Goodnight rudely ignored her questions, far from the polite upbringing he’d had. She tried to fuss over him as she had fussed over Augusta and the children, and he swatted her away as though she were more of a nuisance than gnats. Eventually Mammy had stopped and would only look at Goodnight with such a painful longing that he'd have to duck his head.

Thankfully they'd had Sam, or Goodnight assumes they wouldn't have made it. He knows he wouldn't have left the rubble of Foxsong. Ruth had fed off whoever she'd been around, and if she'd only had Mammy and Goodnight, she likely would have been consumed too. More often than not, Goodnight found it hard to get up in the mornings or even eat the food in front of him. But Sam had soldiered on, tried to make light of situations when he could, and Ruth had stuck with him. Together they'd pulled themselves out of the rubble and waited patiently with outstretched hands for Mammy and Goodnight to do the same.

But he and Mammy had shared the same hope that Augusta would read the note and find them in Kansas. He'd often realize he'd been staring out the window and would turn to find Mammy in the doorway of their little cabin, gazing out over the same expanse of land as he had been. The only difference was that eventually, he'd let his hope burn up too.

* * *

Their place was about two miles outside the center of Lincoln. It was a small, three-roomed cabin, the dining area and parlor combined, Mammy and Ruth sharing one spare room and Sam and Goodnight taking the other. All their possessions rested in boxes at the foot of their beds, tiny in comparison to Foxsong but luxurious in comparison to camps.

They owned a few acres, which they used to farm. While Goodnight had always been willing to lend a hand in the sugar mill, he'd never once plowed a field, and that first summer of 1865, he knew he'd looked like a fool. Sam offered to do the plowing once he'd watched in pity for what he must have felt was long enough, but Goodnight snapped that he would do it if it killed him.

_And maybe, if I'm lucky, it will,_ was his implication. He received such a blank, unhappy stare from Sam that he knew the message had been understood. He ducked his head but didn't take it back.

Some mornings Goodnight couldn't get out of bed. He stared at the ceiling or the wall and searched for the power, but he didn't find it. At first, Mammy brought him meals, saying her baby wouldn't like him so skinny, and tried to pet at him like she had Augusta until Goodnight told her she didn't need to do that anymore, and then he'd faced the wall to keep from seeing her face, tears brimming in her eyes, her lip wobbling like a child's. Days like that, Goodnight wished he'd stayed in Louisiana.

By the fall, when it was evident that their little farm would not to be enough to sustain them, Goodnight suggested they find work elsewhere. Mammy and Ruth had already garnered a reputation as the best seamstresses around, and they often brought home mending that ladies didn't want to do, but neither Goodnight nor Sam wanted to survive on their hard work. And so on a day when Goodnight could get himself out of bed, he and Sam rode into town.

* * *

“And your names,” the sheriff asked, not glancing up from the papers until he heard, “Robicheaux, Goodnight Robicheaux. R-o-b—”

While the sheriff blundered and Goodnight flushed, Sam’s jaw clenched in hurried thought. What should he say was his name? For a moment, he considered saying Evercreech, but it hurt still.

And then he remembered summers spent hiding in the hayloft, away from sisters and mothers, summers with faces and fingers sticky with fruit, hours passed from games or books or stories; he remembered crouching behind the henhouse while the red-headed devil screamed for her younger sister, who whispered “hush” whenever he threatened to give them away. He remembered winters spent lingering at the parlor door, listening to her ever-improving skill over a saga of one brave, kind-hearted desperado.

It was only when Goodnight’s still-bony elbow dug into his side that Sam pulled himself from his reverie, saying, “Sam Chisholm.” He sounded it out in his mind before spelling it for the sheriff as Goodnight had done. The sheriff grunted at this, and Goodnight shifted feet, seeming to notice the difference in reception, but Sam didn’t care. From here on, they would be Goodnight Robicheaux and Sam Chisholm.

* * *

“We've lost our minds,” Goodnight said as they mounted their horses. Sam folded the paper they’d been given by the sheriff and tucked it into his waistcoat. He didn’t say a word in response, just chewed on his lip with a hard look on his face, which Goodnight took to mean that he agreed but didn’t want to say so aloud. “This is enough to make a stuffed bird laugh.”

“You’re right. A hundred dollars each is enough to make a stuffed bird laugh,” Sam said, and Goodnight frowned at him. He wanted to point out that two hundred dollars for one scrawny man was also enough to make a stuffed bird laugh, but the set of Sam’s brow said he didn’t care, so Goodnight swallowed his words and turned his horse after Sam.

Sydney Simpson was his name, a homesteader like Goodnight and Sam, and a homesteader who was more successful than they. He'd shot a child who'd slipped into the chicken coop, and when no one had shown sympathy for a man who'd killed a child, thief or not, he'd hightailed it for the buttes. Thief or not, the sheriff wasn't going to let a man who'd killed a child go, which is why Goodnight and Sam had accepted the offer.

“How do we know it's just him on his lonesome,” Goodnight asked that night when they made camp at the buttes. There was smoke rising on the other side, and they'd taken that as a sign they were close to Sydney Simpson. “How do we know he hasn't joined up with another pack of ruffians? Or how do we know that's him over there and not a rogue Indian? I'm sure there are still Cheyenne out here. Pawnee too.”

Sam glanced up at him from over the fire. “Mr. Goodnight, you can go home if you want. I won't think anything of it.”

And Goodnight scowled back, knowing Sam had lied to his face. He couldn't go home because there was no home, and if he did leave, if he did have a home to return to, he knew what Sam would think. What a sad man, he'd gone the entirety of the war to be scared off by one child killer; what a sad man not to put his skills of killing to good use.

He was also sick and tired of always being called _Mr. Goodnight_.

“Call me Goody, dammit,” he grumbled, not lacking vigor but lacking any real venom.

“Don't you swear at me,” Sam said back, shooting Goodnight a glare from the corner of his eye. Goodnight caught Sam’s glance and felt the corner of his lips twitch. They sounded like a crotchety old couple, bickering only for bickering’s sake, and Sam seemed to realize this too as his lips drew back in a wide smile.

And then there was something in his chest welling up, and his own lips quirked sideways before giving way to a quiet laugh, huffing once, then twice until he was laughing loudly, deeply. For a moment, he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed, truly laughed to the point where his face felt ready to crack and he doubled was over, clutching at his aching sides. Tears dripped from his eyes, and Sam, laughing along with him, rolled his own up to the sky. _About time, don't you think,_ he seemed to be thinking.

Maybe it was, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be.

Early the next morning, Sam saddled the horses while Goodnight packed away their bedrolls and other belongings. He had done this so many times before, and he was so tired of it, but money was money. He still had a good deal of sugar money that he’d thought about suggesting they use, though he knew Sam would never accept. And he did need to do _something_.

They crossed to the other side in the direction of the fire to find it still simmering while a man slept next to it. His hat covered his face, obscuring any way they might have recognized him from their poster. Goodnight glanced to Sam, who was locking his jaw, then to their surroundings; there was a ledge just below them that seemed like it was big enough to lay on, and it would provide a good enough vantage point. “Any ideas,” Sam asked, breaking him from study.

“I can get to that ledge, provide cover if needed, and you…you’re a sojourner seeking breakfast, company, wishing him a good morning? Whatever gets him talking. We can’t go blazing in and catch the wrong man,” Goodnight said.

“I see, put me in the line of fire,” Sam said, but when Goodnight glanced at him, he was smiling.

“I can go with you, if you’d prefer.”

“I think I’d prefer the cover, should it come to that. Just be ready,” Sam said. He turned his horse and started it down the side of the butte, leaving Goodnight alone with his own horse and rifle.

“’Once more into the breach, dear friend,’” he muttered under his breath. He swung his feet over the edge and dropped roughly onto the landing, freezing to see if he’d woken the man—the last thing Goodnight wanted was for him to be on edge when he met Sam—but he did not stir. Goodnight eased himself to the ground, lying prone to take aim. After a moment, there came the sound of singing, not quite in tune, but Goodnight recognized it as Sam’s very loud rendition of “Wait for the Wagon.”  
  
It was Sam’s singing that woke the man. He jerked into a sitting position, hand automatically going to the butt of his gun, his hat falling into his lap and exposing the yellow hair that had been described to them. When Sam came into view, he let himself relax. Still Goodnight raised his rifle to his shoulder and instantly felt a wave of nausea roll through his body. Always he’d been steady-handed, his gaze sharp and even, like a rifle belonged in his arms as much as a well-tailored suit fit the name of Robicheaux, but now his gun felt too heavy and awkward as though he’d never held one in his life. He resituated it, fixing nothing, and shuddered a deep breath, scolding himself for the doubt. He swallowed hard and lined up his shot.

“Morning,” Sam called when finished his chorus, more cheerfully than Goodnight had ever heard him greet.

“Morning,” was his hesitant reply.

“You wouldn’t happen to mind me using your fire there for a pot of coffee, would you? I’d be more than happy to share it in exchange for good conversation.” If he hadn’t felt so sick and been so tense, Goodnight would have laughed. As it were, his hands were sweaty and his mouth was dry and his heart was going fast enough to run laps around a rabbit. But after a moment of thought, the man jerked his head for Sam to join in.

Goodnight waited, never lowering his rifle, never taking his eyes off the two of them. His fingers twitched involuntarily, but he’d spent four years looking down the barrel of a rifle; a few more hours wouldn’t hurt.

And then he noticed Sam starting to tense, and Goodnight’s fingers tightened around his rifle, waiting for the man to make a move. If his hand went to his gun, he’d lose a finger or two before he could ever draw it from his holster. If he lunged, he’d have a bullet in his back before he made it a foot. But Sydney Simpson, if that’s who he was, didn’t threaten Sam like that; instead he rose to his feet, fists balled at his side, and shouted, “You accusing me of being a child-killer?”

“No, sir,” Sam said back, louder than usual, perhaps hoping he would get Goodnight’s attention if the other man hadn’t already. 

_No, sir._

Suddenly memories of Union officers filled his mind, and no matter how hard he blinked, he couldn’t rid himself of the vision. He shuddered another breath, harder this time, and tried desperately to clear his mind to no avail.

Shots rang out, and Goodnight pushed his face into the dirt, hands over his head as though it was the damned Gatling gun cranking out bullets. He needed to get to Sam and get him out of the way before he was hit, before he was burying another friend. With an overwhelming need to reach Sam, he gasped out a cry but could do nothing to reach him. He was stuck and paralyzed with fear, and Sam was going to die, surrounded by smoke and far from home. He’d be buried in this ground with no one he knew and not in the vault with his family.

And then a hand landed on his shoulder, and Goodnight cried out again, flinging his shoulder away from whatever had touched him. He was wheezing, gasping for breath, sweat dripping down his face as he jerked his head sideways to find Sam crouched next to him.

“Goodni—hey,” Sam said, his voice low and calm, though his eyes were just as wide and scared as Goodnight felt. He helped Goodnight into a sitting position, hand on his back once more. “Goody?”

“It's like I was stuck in a dream,” he said once his heart stopped pounding enough that he could speak.

* * *

They’re a merry band, truly; odd, but merry enough for the time being.

At the edge of town, Faraday and Vasquez face each other in what can only be their third stand-off of the day. Reminding Goodnight just barely of Billy, Vasquez crouches in his loping grace, knees bent as though ready to pounce. Whereas in stark contrast, Faraday stands straight, brazen and bull-headed, ready to charge into his fight without any of Vasquez’s calculations. Both have hands hovering over the butts of their guns, ready at the drop of a hat to draw, but Goodnight would bet his money on Vasquez any day—and not just because Faraday is a jumped-up little shit.

Sam stalks by the two of them, and whatever passing remark he has makes Vasquez straighten, a mountain lion uncurling himself from prey. It’s not without looks over their shoulders that they break apart into their separate ways, two children not wanting to back down. Goodnight snorts to himself at the actions. Sam is still keeping people in line. Some things never change.

Across the street, Horne heaves his massive form onto the steps of the mercantile, dabbing at his forehead with a battered handkerchief as the same little blond girl from before offers him another drink from her bucket. For a man with such a grisly legacy, he's much kinder and homelier than Goodnight ever expected—though he doesn't know why when he's surprised enough people by being an Angel of Death who would rather lounge on a porch swing than ever look at a gun—but he likes Horne well enough. They're alike, he thinks, in that their lives did not go to plan, and now they're both alone on the frontier; they're old and want nothing more than a good meal with the right people. Yet Goodnight can still boast that his beard hasn’t gone completely gray.

Having been separated from Vasquez, Faraday takes his bothering to Horne, leaning against the railing in all his disrespectful ease. More than once, Goodnight has wanted to snap at Faraday that his children were better behaved than him, but then he remembers Faraday is nothing but an overgrown child himself, and a pesky one at that. It explains why he can't leave Vasquez alone, although to Faraday’s credit, Vasquez isn't so much better.

But Horne, in his infinite patience, weathers Faraday’s pestering much better than the rest of them do. As he sits on the steps, the little girl and her bucket by his side, Faraday leaned against the railing, Goodnight can't help but think of Jack Horne, the great Jack Horne, as nothing but a grandfather.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he would have been a grandfather.

At the thought, he seeks out Sam once more. He's speaking with Mrs. Cullen, or rather arguing, by the look of it. She's a fierce creature, and Goodnight reckons that if anyone can battle Sam, it's Mrs. Cullen. Goodnight wishes with all his might that she didn't have to battle him, fruitless as his wishing may be. After all these years, Sam still decks himself in black, all black like the mourning wear of New Orleans. _Take it off_ , Goodnight wants to tell him because all he can think about is Charleston and the words he never took to heart. _Take it off, Sam. Wearing it only makes it worse, makes it linger, and it’s not good to dwell._

But they’ve both dwelt for far too long. Sam, with Augusta’s pragmatism, was forever more sensible and detached than Goodnight, and he’d hoped after they parted that Sam would keep moving forward like usual. He hoped Sam wouldn’t be like him, stuck in the past and doing nothing to aid his perpetually-bleeding heart.

If Goodnight had wanted to help, he could have stopped their coming here long ago.

Yet here they are. He’s preparing with Sam for an overdue battle. He has Billy and Sam on one side, and a handful of new faces on the other. Goodnight likes these men. He likes their companionship and quick wit, and he likes that they like Billy. He loves that they like Billy; that's the most important part.

This will not end well, and Goodnight does not want to see how it does.

If only his foresight was as strong as his hindsight.

* * *

It didn’t take long for them to realize that Goodnight and guns didn’t go well together anymore. But for a year, they continued like that, going after bounties and splitting the profits. Sam did the shooting, though Goodnight made himself useful. He could set up and tear down a camp faster than Sam would ever dream of being able to do; his meals weren’t so bad now that he had real food to use; and he could survey an area and come up with a plan within a moment’s notice. When they went below Kansas, he threw his name around as freely as he’d once spent money, finding faint, sickening amusement in how eager people were to help the Goodnight Robicheaux. But when they went above Kansas, he kept mum on his name, and on multiple occasions, he introduced himself as another person entirely.

Some days were better than others. Those days emerged from calm nights spent listening to a beautiful, easy laugh that bared a white throat, from fingers than danced over his skin as light as air, and from a tender mouth that told him to sleep, to _sleep, sweetheart, I am here, I am with you._ From those nights, he woke rested, his aching heart light, with a determination to work during the day. He’d joke with Sam and Ruth, and he’d tease Mammy until she stood in front of him just shaking her head. He would run whatever errands they needed or do whatever chores there were, except the plowing because Sam said it was pitiful, and in the evenings, he’d join them for dinner and revel in Mammy’s cooking.

But perhaps he’d gone too long without food, for every other day, it rarely enticed him, and he ate only when he felt Sam’s eyes on him too hard. Some days, when he roused himself from bed and they weren’t serving a warrant, he wandered about listlessly over the rolling Kansas hills. He would ride the little gray mare and smile when she guided him around every little dip in the ground, treating him like the dainty mistress she’d grown used to. He missed the flat, lush lands of Louisiana, wild even after nearly a hundred and fifty years of settlement, wild but beautiful; missed the creeping bayous and dense forests and the perpetual rain this time of year, missed the smell of sugarcane and muggy summer nights.

Goodnight and Sam farmed the land, producing only enough to last them through winter. When they stopped by saloons, Goodnight raked in more money gambling; men were always so surprised when someone as lackadaisical as Goodnight wiped them clean.

“Where'd you learn to do that,” Sam asked once when Goodnight had cleared nearly the entire saloon.

“Well when you played with…with the people I did, you get to be a sharp,” Goodnight said with a shrug. “Besides, poker came from New Orleans. I'd be a disgrace if I lost.”

And some days—some days Goodnight wished he really had put on his wedding suit and crawled under Sam’s crosses. He woke in the night to soaked sheets and a pounding in his head, his heart pumping faster than a train, and often it took too long for him to come back to Kansas. He'd watch Sam opposite him and try to match his breathing with the rise and fall of Sam's back, knowing the other man was awake but trying to save his dignity. As if he still had that. On those days, he found himself with more whiskey than food and a shake in his hands that refused to cease. He rolled his shoulders trying to shake away the grabbing hands that felt less and less like figments of his imagination and did everything in his power to ignore the whispers in his ear. 

More whispers, real whispers, came to them beginning in January of 1867 that a man had been buying up property in the surrounding counties—or offering to buy property. Homesteaders would get a knock from a young man with a thin face and bright blue eyes set far back into his head, skin tanned from the sun, who said he worked for a very important man, and he would offer a bit of money for their land. Goodnight scoffed when he heard the offers he’d given, knowing the worth of good land, but others had taken the offer, which was more than they’d ever seen. On an April evening in 1867, the rumors gained a little truth when there was a knock at their cabin door.

He offered Sam ten dollars for their land, and silently Goodnight had hoped he would not agree. This was where they lived, it was becoming their home. They were starting over, rebuilding their life, their own life in their own house on their own property. If they were to be happy again, it would be here. 

“This is our land, and we’ll be staying here,” Sam said, and he closed the door. They ate in a tense silence that night.

* * *

It was on one of the bad days in October of 1867 that Sam, finding him hunkered over the kitchen table and staring at the surface, took pity on him and suggested a few rounds of poker at the saloon. Goodnight wanted to tell him no, he was going to bed, but he saw sad green eyes and couldn't decline the offer.

Which was how he ended up at the bar, now hunkered over his tasteless beer, Sam at a table in the corner. He’d never done much drinking outside anyone’s house, and he still wasn’t used to the bustle of a bar, all the unfamiliar people, the noise, the dinge. The glasses didn’t shine and the conversation wasn’t always easy. But this was life. This was _vie._

With his pint half gone, Goodnight considered joining Sam. Sam would probably like it if he got a game of poker going with someone, but then again, he really didn’t want to play poker. He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to leave Louisiana in the first place either. But if all he had was Ruth, Mammy, and Sam, he couldn’t leave them. They were clinging to each other as their last lifeline.

Next to him, a man plopped himself onto the stool. Goodnight paid him no mind. Once he would have struck up a conversation, offered to buy a round, but those days had gone up in flames like everything else. Maybe the man expected conversation, for he glanced over as though expectant and offended. His eyes flicked down to Goodnight’s lapels, where he still wore his fleur-de-lis pins from Mathilde, and then he sneered. “I spent the war down in Louisiana and saw those things everywhere. You one of those Louisianans?”

“With all my being,” Goodnight said and almost smiled because Mathilde would have been happy. He took a swig of his pint, grimacing. He was used to quality alcohol, rum from Louisiana sugarcane, whiskey imported from Tennessee, and he'd been spoiled by it until beer tasted like piss. “Name’s Goodnight, Goodnight Robicheaux.” 

“Goodnight Robicheaux,” he sneered even more, and his friends down the bar turned to watch them. He gave Goodnight a once-over, scoffing. “You, Goodnight Robicheaux? You can't be.”

“Sure as the sun,” Goodnight said, hunkering his shoulders over his drink with the hope they would take the hint and leave him alone. He got it. He’d been born with a name and then made a name for himself, and now he didn’t quite live up to it. He wouldn’t have believed he was Goodnight Robicheaux either.

“Nah, you can't be. See, here's the thing,” the man said, leaning closer. “I spent the war in Louisiana, yes? And one day, some men and me went out to this plantation. Biggest house I ever saw, all huge and white. Just like a castle. And inside, there was all this art and fine furniture, looked like a museum, like no one’s supposed to live there. Except there were people living there, and the woman who met us said her name was Robicheaux. Mrs. Goodnight Robicheaux. What a fine man Mr. Goodnight Robicheaux must have been to have that house and that lady, and you—you ain’t that fine.

“We took care of that house. Weren't nothing left of it when we left. I'm sure she was a fine lady, she just had the misfortune of being married to a rotten sonuvabitch—” 

He'd never been a brawler. But without caring what would happen if he took on a man with his five friends, Goodnight reared his fist back and let it fly.

* * *

When the shouting broke out, Sam closed his eyes and heaved a deep breath, knowing exactly who the ‘dirty reb’ they were talking about was. It wasn't his first time breaking up a fight—or at least the beginnings of one—and he wasn't in too much of a hurry to intervene.

He turned in his seat to find a swarm of men pummeling a man inside, a man who showed no signs of wanting either to defend himself or fight back. Sam watched as the strangers beat him down, kicking and hitting, until Goodnight lay on the floor, half-curled up on himself but not enough to offer any protection. There was blood on him, blood on the other men, blood on the floor, and no desire to stop any of it. Without thinking, Sam fired one shot into the ceiling, moving effortlessly through the scattered crowd, and pulled on man away, just enough for him to reach Goodnight.

Taking hold of either side of his waistcoat, Sam heaved Goodnight up roughly and tossed him out the door, shoving him against the wall.

“What the hell are you doing,” he barked. Goodnight swiped with the back of his hand at his bloodied nose and winced at the contact. His head drooped, and when he didn't answer, Sam shook him by the lapels. “Answer me.”

“Why do you care,” Goodnight shouted, his head snapping up, sharp eyes blazing at Sam defiantly. If Sam hadn't stepped in, he would have died in that bar fight, but Sam figured that's what he was aiming for. He seemed to realize Sam had made the connection, for he dropped his head and voice again. Much more pained, he asked, “Why do you want to save a piece of rebel trash like me?”

“The war is over,” Sam said, calmer than he was close to feeling, and his words felt truer than they were. Goodnight fought day and night against things Sam couldn't see, and Sam himself tried to push away memories of the last four years. But the war had ended. It was time to move on.

“Doesn’t mean shit,” Goodnight said, half a snarl on his face, which Sam assumed would have been a whole snarl had his face not been so bruised. The derision was felt either way.

“We’re supposed to make her proud. You picking fights every time I turn my back wouldn't do that,” Sam said, not caring how much his words cut. Even after a year, Goodnight hadn’t pulled himself out of the ruin. He woke constantly by choking back sobs or stifling screams, and he was as thin as if he’d just come walking home, face gaunt, clothes hanging off his frame because he wouldn’t let anyone tailor them. If it was a badge of shame, he would wear it with a bowed head.

Goodnight’s face twisted, and he dropped his head. Finally he swiped at his bloody nose, wincing at the contact, and upon seeing the blood on his hand, pulled out a handkerchief. He stared at the stained fabric for a long while before crumpling it in his fist and looking up at Sam. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can,” Sam said, and not for the first time, he wished for Miss Augusta or the children. She could level anyone with a single gaze, and those children had doted on their father nearly as much as he had doted on them. Just one of them would have known what to do better than he ever would even if they spent the next lifetime together. After almost two years, no matter how many days they spent by each other’s side, no matter how many nights they laughed over a fire, Sam felt like half of the time, he was walking on eggshells around Goodnight.

But he repeated, sincerely, “Yes you can. Now I’m going to go back home. Take your time here, but if you’re not back by the time I’m ready for bed, I’ll gather a search party and tell them you’d gone gambling over in Elgin.”

And while Goodnight closed his eyes and snorted, there was something that could have been a smile on his face.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From October 1867-well...the end of the movie.

For a long while after Sam left, Goodnight sat on the saloon steps alone. His nose, probably broken, throbbed, and no matter how often he wiped at it, there still seemed to be blood trickling from it. For a long while, he sat there on the steps alone and thought about Sam’s words. The war was over, he'd said. But it didn't feel like the war was over. He'd watched as Lee had met with Grant, but he was so far from Louisiana without anyone really by his side. He'd spent the entirety of the war craving for the presence of a few people, the feelings only they could give him, and now the war was over but he still had that same craving.

The war was over even if it didn't feel like it was, and it was time to move forward, no matter how much he wanted to go back. So Goodnight stood, brushing off his pants, and turned his horse towards the cabin.

He was a mile away when he noticed the glow in the distance, the smoke oddly white against the black night sky. He stared in wonder for a moment before his mouth went dry. Home, if that’s what it was, wasn’t too far from there.

Hunkered low over the little gray mare who had no desire to run, Goodnight urged her faster. Suppose he came back to nothing, the house gone, Sam and Mammy and Ruth gone, suppose he came back to nothing but ashes. Suppose it was happening again, just as it had before. If he wasn’t there for them, if he let them go without so much of a fight when he’d done so much fighting—that would be the end. There would be no redemption, no return from it. Hunkered low over the little gray mare, Goodnight thundered down the road, pressing his heels into her side until his fears became reality.

Strangers crawled over their property, and from the tree swung two figures, shadows in the night but distinguishable nonetheless. He might as well be seeing his life swinging from the branch, he might as well be all the men on their property, he thought, and it was all he could do not to turn the mare and ride like hellfire the way he’d come. His heart stopped in his chest, and if he'd been the one walking, his feet would have frozen, but the mare pressed on. Ruth and Mammy were dead. Ruth who had stayed in Augusta's shadow during the war, Mammy who had raised her, they were dead. There they were, swinging from a tree the way Mathilde and Salome had done, chins resting on their chests, feet far above the ground. If Augusta came— _when_ Augusta came—she would be devastated. And now three men had hold of a rope and were tugging it back, lifting Sam from his feet. They were about to do the same to Sam.

Goodnight couldn't bear that.

Without thinking or even realizing, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired once, twice, squarely hitting two of the men heaving Sam into the air. He dropped back to the tips of his toes, but still he grappled at the rope around his neck, a panic in his eyes that Goodnight had never imagined he could possess.

From somewhere beside the man who had hold of Sam, a single shot whizzed past his ear, startling the little gray mare who had likely never run or heard gunshots a day in her life. She reared, whinnying sharply, and another two shots rang out. As she came back to the ground, Goodnight swung off and reached for the revolver on his hip. He fired once more and Sam fell, rolling onto the ground as his legs collapsed. He wheezed and coughed, but as long as he was alive, Goodnight would have to worry about that later; someone was still shooting at him.

The man was mounting a horse when he fired two more shots, one zipping by Goodnight’s shoulder too close for comfort. That was five. Either he'd run out of luck, or there was one more shot left to Goodnight's two. Goodnight didn't wait to find out, raising the revolver and hitting him squarely in the temple. He dropped to the ground in that simple way that men did when shot, one bang and a straight fall.

To keep from thinking about what he'd done, Goodnight turned to face the inferno. It could have been nothing but a pile of dry leaves for as well as it burned, roaring and snapping with all the fury Hell had waiting for him, the cabin disappearing before his eyes just as suddenly as his life had. He drew bucket after bucket from the well, pumping until his shoulders screamed, but it did no good. The fire blazed, blistering his skin and searing his clothes. Bucket after bucket simmered and steamed, and eventually Goodnight let his hands fall to his side and watched as the future went up in flames.

By the light of the fire, he drew one more bucket of water and went to Sam. He was sitting against the tree with his sister in his lap, shaking hands brushing over her hair, his face streaked with tears. Goodnight’s steps faltered at the sight. He'd always assumed Sam’s tears came from the same dry well as Augusta’s, and seeing him like that was a nightmare come true. With hands that matched Sam’s, he dipped his handkerchief into the bucket.

“Don't,” Sam hissed, turning away with a wince.

“Let me help,” Goodnight said. He had to do something, keep his mind occupied, keep himself from thinking.

Maybe Sam understood because, eyes closed and jaw clenched, he leaned his head back and allowed Goodnight to press his handkerchief to his neck.

* * *

They spent the night watching the flames build and then slowly die out, and in the morning, there was nothing but a smoking pile of rubble. Goodnight sat and watched, and for what it was worth, it could have been Foxsong. He hadn't seen that, so now he had this.

When it had cooled enough, Goodnight and Sam stepped among the wreckage. Goodnight shifted the ashes with the toe of his boot only to find more ash beneath. Dazed, Sam stood in the middle of the house and glanced around at what had been their home, and Goodnight let him be, knowing his disbelief and anguish.

The green trunk that had rested at the foot of his bed was unrecognizable, so burnt and ashen that it no longer seemed to be a gift from a distant wedding. If there had been contents in it, no one would have known, or known what they were. Goodnight knelt down and dipped his hands inside, letting the ashes fall through his fingers. The trunk had been everything he'd had left, everything from a life he'd spent four years throwing away. Books, clothing, memories—a breeze could blow it away now.

The ground crunched as he sat back. Whichever way he turned his head, all he found were the yellow fields and the bright blue sky encircling a scorched ring. Their cabin hadn't been grand in any sense of the word, and in no way would it have ever compared to Foxsong, but it was all they'd had. At least the blackened foundation of Foxsong had remained, whereas here…there was nothing.

There would be no fixing this.

Not for the first time, he didn’t feel like a New Orleanian. The people of his city were probably plugging along as usual, no tragedy too great for their unconquerable hearts. Storms, sickness, and skirmishes could not keep down a New Orleanian, but they had worn him down until he wasn’t sure he could ever get back up and still be who he was.

But for the first time, he didn't think Sam had that New Orleanian spirit left in him either. His eyes were hard, not serious as they had been, but merely hard, his movements rough, all clipped and jerked, not purposeful, just short. Sam had moved with that same purpose as Goodnight had, and now he was drifting along too.

But Sam was the stronger one. Goodnight would give him his time, pull up his bootstraps for the time being, and one day Sam would be back. He could make do until then.

* * *

They buried Ruth first.

She was too young to be buried, Goodnight thought as he reached for her coffin he’d had to go into town to purchase and then find the nerve to go back—too young with too much of a life ahead. He didn't think she'd been any more than sixteen, still time enough to live a full life, to fall in love and have a family and be happy. Though maybe time enough didn’t exist. Time enough would have seen her alive, trotting along behind Augusta, for if someone had been privy to all Augusta's little thoughts, it had been Ruth—Ruth who had kept one step behind Augusta to reminder her to breathe, to make sure she had taken off her shoes at night and crawled under the covers instead of flopping down for a few hours, Ruth who watched over her when Goodnight couldn't because that was a choice he had made. Goodnight had been grappling for something of Augusta these past two years when it had been in front of him, and yet he had hardly spoken with her.

She was gone now.

He slid her coffin forward, wishing for help because he didn’t want to do this on his own, but he wouldn’t say anything. Sam was always the one stuck doing the work. If he needed this, then perhaps Goodnight could grant him that.

As he dragged the second coffin to the grave, he thought about lying down on top of her and not getting up. Mammy had birthed his wife and then birthed his own children. She had loved them so, and he’d been nothing but rotten to her the past few years when all she’d wanted was the same thing he did. No one had deserved to die last night, not Ruth, not Mammy—no one except himself. It was with a choked gasp that he lowered her over the edge. Once he did this, he’d have nothing left of Louisiana except an aching heart, a head full of memories, and Sam.

_“Jamais je ne t’oublierai,”_ Goodnight whispered, wiping at his eyes. He set Mammy down gently and reached for the shovel.

“Saints of God,” he began, but the words wouldn’t come. He could hear them in his mind, that he was supposed to be asking the saints to come to their aid, but his mouth wouldn’t move. Those weren’t his words to say. They had been his words ten years ago, but he hadn’t been able to say them then either.

“She hated me,” Goodnight said instead, mentally adding, _and with good reason._

Sam snorted from where he was watching by the tree. “Ma? She loved you. She’d loved you ever since your engagement dinner, and it was all she ever wanted to talk about, how pretty her baby looked on her wedding day, when she was all dressed up to host a ball, her baby had married a Robicheaux. If her baby loved you, so did she.”

The last part sent a sting through Goodnight’s chest and a memory to his mind of Mathilde saying the same thing. He had gotten more love from Augusta than she knew she’d given.

He pushed his shovel into the pile of dirt with his boot. “Do you want to say anything?”

“They can't get away with this,” Sam said after a long time, and with a scowl on his face, he stalked away.

* * *

It’s dark enough that Goodnight thinks at first that he’s back in the cold Tennessee mountains, but he knows that isn’t true. It’s too cold, too bleak, no whistling of wind or rustling of underbrush for it to be the Tennessee mountains. If it’s death, it’s not what Goodnight was expecting.

After what feels like an eternity, Goodnight’s eyes adjust enough that he realizes he’s not alone in the stillness. Clad in black and blending in, someone is stretched out on the floor—or the blackness of whatever they’re in—not making a sound, moving so little it doesn’t look like they’re even breathing. Goodnight steps forward, not making a sound either, to see just who it is when he’s washed in a freezing flood from his head to his toes; he doesn’t need to step any closer. Outlining all the grace and sleek lines as familiar as his own body are thin white stripes and a row of gleaming brass buttons.

He's dead, most certainly. Just as he will be in a matter of hours, Goodnight knows, and dead because of Goodnight. Dead because of his own goddamned stubborn heart.

From somewhere far in the distance echoes the clicking of heels and the swishing of skirts that fourteen years on the frontier hasn’t erased from his mind. He waits, hardly breathing, and slowly a little white dot appears in the blackness, growing larger and larger until it’s a pale, round face framed by pitchy curls and a high-necked, black dress, both of which are barely distinguishable. Fingers twisting the crepe of her skirt, she moves slower than he remembers, hesitant and dreading as though marching towards battle with Oceane, back straight but her face tired, the perpetual smile vanished.

“Oh,” Augusta breathes when she sees Billy at her feet, stopping, creating a suffocating silence. In that instant, she leaves whatever hell or limbo they’re in and retreats to her unknown, eyes glassy in a slack face, and with a choked inhale, again, says, “Oh.”

And then her face isn’t slack anymore. It twists in horror and anguish, jaw trembling, and, arms outstretched, she sinks to her knees, babbling, “No, oh no, no, no…” Fingers brush over the curve of his cheeks, over the buttons of his waistcoat, before she’s grabbing at him and tucking him against her chest.

_What strength has woman,_ Goodnight thinks, not for the first time, for he knows just how heavy a body can be. No sooner does she take hold of Billy, though, than her shoulders begin to shake, and, cheek to the top of Billy’s head, soft black curls mixing with soft black silk, a sob chokes its way from her throat. Guttural and unpracticed, it reminds him of a dog hacking at something stuck in its throat, and as she writhes with the body, tears streaking her cheeks and wetting Billy’s head, Goodnight thinks, for the first time, that she isn’t beautiful.

He hates the sight, but he’s powerless to look away from something he’d never imagined he’d see. Augusta rocks back and forth, one arm keeping a tight hold on him, the other moving to caress his face, and Goodnight wants so badly to reach for her. “Oh, Gus, darlin’, it’s all right, it’s all right,” he wants to say as he envelops and rocks her. But he doesn’t. If Billy’s dead, it’s his fault; it’s his fault Augusta is so upset.

But someone does make to soothe her. Too out of place in the darkness and seeming to have stepped off a cathedral wall, Ames kneels down with a kiss to her temple, his hands on her shoulders pulling her away under the guise of comfort. “Let’s go, honey. You have to let go.”

“This is my fault.”

“Oh, honey, it’s not your—”

“He wasn’t supposed to be alone.” Augusta rounds on him with her green eyes rimmed in red, somehow seeming just as wide despite the swelling. Ames freezes then. Maybe it’s the conviction in her voice or the childish insistence in her face that halts him, but he recoils ever so slightly from her, his own face slipping into something unknown because Ames was never one for anything besides merriment. It’s a costly slip that Augusta catches, and more fervently, she says, “It’s my fault, Ames. He wasn’t supposed to be alone. He wasn’t.”

For a long while, Ames looks at her with that unknown expression on his face before he nods. “I know he wasn’t just as well as you do. Now come on, Aggie, let’s go.”

When Ames shows no sign of relenting, Augusta retreats back into her far off place once more. She gingerly eases Billy back onto the ground, brushes at his hair, and murmurs, “… _t'oublierai_.” Ames allows her one last long, parting look, and then he puts a hand on her back to turn her away.

They’re going, again, back the way they came, back into the darkness, and Goodnight is left with the one other sight he’d hoped he’d never see.

* * *

The winter of 1867 was the first that Goodnight spent huddled in a hotel.

Sam spent the months silent. Face dark and eyes clouded, he walked like a passing storm, fearsome to see and leaving a bad feel in his wake, his steps back to always purposeful, always directed. In some ways, Goodnight admired him. He wished he could have picked himself up like Sam had and carried on. He wished he had stayed in New Orleans and compiled a list of the men who had destroyed his home, ticked them off one by one with a skill much too honed. At least he would have had a purpose then, a reason for being always on the road, if he could make them suffer the way he was.

But in other ways, Goodnight feared for him. Life was bleak now that he couldn't feel the sun on his face or admire rain on windowpanes, now that they had burned the bridges behind them and in front too, and Sam wasn't going to pull him out of this one. Sam was going to stay and grovel just like Goodnight. They were equally bad company to each other, sharing few words unless they were both rip-roaring drunk, and Sam wasn't one to get drunk—to drink but never get drunk—so it was Goodnight who slurred at him and Sam who responded.

They would play cards to earn their keep, only heading out on a bounty when the price was good enough to compensate trekking through the cold and weathering the snow. At least home had left him with that much, Goodnight thought when he bluffed his way to a full wallet; playing with cheaters, and good ones at that, lent itself to wonderful skill.

On one evening in March, he took his earnings and headed down the street for the hotel to find Sam at the single table in their room, papers in front of him. His head jerked up when Goodnight opened the door, eyes almost wide, stopping Goodnight in his tracks. That Sam could be so absorbed in something that he didn’t hear anyone coming sat poorly with Goodnight, and he made his timid way to his side of the room.

“Anything interesting,” he asked in an offhanded attempt as he tossed his coat onto the bed—a habit of which he was still trying to break himself, since there wasn’t anyone to put it away for him. It came out before he could really catch himself, and he immediately regretted the words; something told him he didn’t want to be privy to whatever Sam was planning.

When Sam didn’t respond, Goodnight glanced up at him from the corner of his eye. Licking his lips, fingers toying with the ends of the bandana he’d taken to wearing around his neck, Sam finally said, “Once the ground thaws…once the grounds thaws, I’m going out with the frontier army.”

Goodnight paused where he was toeing off his boots to look at him fully. He knew Sam’s jokes, dry jibes that were only recognizable from a glint in his eye, but there was no glint. Not that there had been a glint in some months, really. Still, Goodnight let out a little puff that was supposed to be a laugh. “Oh, come on now, Sam…”

“I mean it. Honest work, and it’s stable. Or just as stable as we have now. And if you had any sense, you’d do the same.”

“Sense? _Sense?_ If I had any sense, and no one has ever accused me of not, I’d realize that they’re the ones who put us in this goddamned—”

“They didn't put us anywhere,” Sam said, and color rose to Goodnight’s face as well as if Sam had hit him. He heard the implication, and the implication was the truth. _They_ hadn't done anything.

Goodnight wished they had. He wished he hadn't been so stubborn that he couldn't have swallowed ill-begotten pride and come to his senses, but three years of wishing had gotten him nowhere but this damned hotel room and Sam. Even still he couldn’t swallow his ill-begotten pride and admit that maybe, just maybe, the frontier army wasn’t a bad option because even still he wanted someone he could point his finger towards besides himself, and men in blue coats were as close as he could get.

“The war is over, Goodnight,” Sam said, his voice as level as ever. Just once he wished Sam would lose his temper, just once he wished Sam would give him a reason, just once he wished he would be able to unbottle all the fury and wrath. He wanted to let it come pouring out of him and rip him at the seams and reduce him to a pile of rubble and set the world on fire so it would know how he felt.

But Sam never lost his temper, and Goodnight thought maybe he’d left his expression a thousand miles away, so he could only snarl, “It’s not, Sam, it’s not. It keeps going and—”

“Well you haven't been fighting in a long time.”

Sam was right, like always. Whatever Goodnight had been doing wasn't fighting, and it was barely surviving. It was floating, hoping half-heartedly for the best while expecting the worst.

“We lost the war,” Goodnight said, hoping it hit low, and Sam didn’t respond. Maybe because, low or not, it was the only honest thing Goodnight had said all night.

But Sam had told the truth. At the end of the month, Sam told Goodnight he hoped to hear from him, and Goodnight watched a blue coat ride away, leaving him in the room to himself until April. It was nearly as quiet as usual, but the silence reverberated with all the familiarity of a skeletal horse and a coffin. He was as alone as he’d been in the Tennessee mountains, this time without the hope of reaching home.

Once the ground thawed and Sam had donned a blue coat, Goodnight turned the little gray mare west.

* * *

This had been a mistake. Goodnight has spent the last fourteen years trying to run from war, and right when he thought he'd finally gotten away, he'd run straight back to it. He'd finally woken up to the fact he had something good, and then he'd promptly thrown it away as soon as something from the old days had been dangled in front of his face. Southern men weren't cowards or meek, but here he is, soiling the good Southern name, putting his cowardice on display.

Goodnight glances around the room he and Billy have been sharing. All of his possessions are saddled on his horse, and he'd even packed Billy's but left them sitting neatly on the bed. Just in case.

Sam, Augusta’s Sam. He couldn't redeem himself from even that part of his life.

Outside, in the hall, the third step from the top creaks, even though he hadn't heard any of the others. That third step from the top creaks no matter how stealthy the person ascending. The hall is silent, but the door opens and Goodnight braces himself for what's to come.

Billy takes one sweeping glance around the now empty room, and in his emotionless face, his eyes change to something Goodnight can recall distinctly, that sad defeat. Not surprise, not anger. Resolve. He has expected this.

“Were you going to tell me,” Billy asks, “or just run off and leave me to guess?”

The question cuts worse than any of Billy’s knives. They both know the answer—if Billy hadn't caught him, Goodnight would have vanished, just like always—but it's a question Billy must have been holding in for ages. To an outsider, his face remains as stoic as usual, but Goodnight sees differently. He can see the fury that wants to slash the room apart; there's betrayal that wants to advert his eyes; there's acceptance that knows this was inevitable.

“I can't do this, Billy,” Goodnight says when he finds his voice.

“I came here because of you.” His voice is hard, revealing no emotion other than cold betrayal. “We've been partners all these years, but you made this decision. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here. This wouldn't be my fight.”

Goodnight hears it. If it hadn't been for him, this wouldn't have been Billy's fight, but it is now. He's seen that these people need help, help that Billy loves to give. Billy gives his help to the highest bidder, and the highest bidder is no longer Goodnight.

“Why didn't you say anything? I would have—”

“There was nothing I could do to keep you from coming,” Billy states, and Goodnight clenches his jaw. Billy is one of those people with the terrible qualities of always being right. Goodnight was doomed from the start to leave Billy, either here or in Volcano Springs or some other godforsaken place. But now that he is faced with the option, he isn't sure if he can follow through. Billy Rocks had earned his name. He was the foundation of the life Goodnight had tried to rebuild.

“Come with me. We can ride out of here like we always do.” Goodnight takes a step towards him, but Billy only shakes his head. He can see in Billy's eyes solidity, dedication not to him but the people of Rose Creek.

“We came here to help them,” Billy says. For the briefest moment, the same look that he gets when Goodnight has a nightmare flickers across his face, like he knows they didn't come to help, like this is all a bad dream. “Goody, you can help them.”

“I can't, Billy. You've seen me, you know I can't,” Goodnight says, aching more from how earnest Billy sounds than his own inability. It was evident from the day he and Billy met that he couldn't pull a trigger, yet somehow Billy still sounds like he believes in Goodnight. And Goodnight has proven he doesn’t deserve that.

Billy’s hand raises from his side slightly and drops back down just as quickly, his eyes flicking to it as if surprised he had moved. He’d looked as though he were reaching for Goodnight, anything to keep him here, and more than he'd ever imagined possible, Goodnight wants to reach for him too. There's only so much loss he can take.

But then Billy’s face hardens again, and Goodnight halfway waits for a silver brush to go flying with a shriek of _Damn you,_ shrill and caustic. But that isn’t Billy. Instead, he says flatly, “You can stay anyway. Keep the women and children safe, you can—”

“I can't, Billy,” Goodnight scoffs, embarrassed by the offer. Him staying with the women and children is just as cowardly as him running, and Billy knows that, but he's grasping at smoke. He's trying his damnedest not to beg, and it's terrifying.

“You can stay—”

“I’m not going to watch you die, Billy,” Goodnight all but roars, but in his head, he hears, _What do you want, Augusta, what do you want me to do_. He’d seen so many people he loved die or had the news delivered to him, and then, after so long, he’d been given Billy. At ten years, Billy’s been by his side for longer than even Augusta was, and he’s seen him through some of his worst days. He can’t let Billy go.

“Maybe you won’t have to,” Billy snarls icily at Goodnight’s outburst. “Maybe I’ll watch you die you, did you ever think of that?”

“That’s not how it works.” And it's the truth. The way of the world is this: when Goodnight goes to shoot, the wrong people die. It started with Ames and ended with Augusta, but then he'd been given Billy to start over. And start over he did, right back at the beginning with war. If they stay, Billy is going to die. More firmly this time, Goodnight says, “Billy, I won't watch you die.”

Billy’s only response is to move out of the doorway. He doesn't look up. His hand goes to his vest, lingers a moment, then, empty, drops back to his side.

If he'd twisted his hairpin into his chest, Goodnight thinks it would have hurt less.

* * *

Goodnight turned the little gray mare west and didn’t end up west so much as the Dakota Territory with the Northern Pacific Railroad.

“You an engineer,” the man at the office asked when Goodnight walked in, likely looking too much like the soldiers who had gone to work on the Union and Central, their only knowledge of the railroad coming from protecting or destroying the eastern lines running during the war.

“Not at all. Used to be a farmer, ran a couple of bounties, now I’m just looking for work. Figured this would be better than Durant or Huntington.” It wasn’t a total lie; he’d made his living off agriculture, he just hadn’t been the one to touch the crops. The truth was, though, he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten there. Provided there was a town on the way, he’d let the little gray mare go where she wanted, and she’d picked her way over flat Nebraska fields and through Dakota hills until they came upon the Northern Pacific Junction.

The man at the office looked him once over, but, despite how much he wanted to fidget, Goodnight stood his ground. He was dusty and wrinkled, he knew, and really nothing more than a pack of rattling bones, and his voice alone gave away that he had no business there. Not that he really had any business elsewhere either, and maybe the man at the office realized this because he grunted once.

“Can you lay ties? Dollar a day. Or, if you’re so inclined, Mr. Smith is looking for a bit of security after a… _mishap_ a few weeks ago.”

“Mishaps don’t exactly require security,” Goodnight noted, and again, the man at the office grunted, his eyes narrowing. After a moment, he reached for a set of keys off the wall and, stepping out of the office, he motioned Goodnight to follow. They sloshed through the mud, past housing tents and saloon tents and meal tents all barely out of the mire, until they reached the end of camp where two lone cabooses sat. The man from the office heaved himself up the steps of one and rapped on the door. 

* * *

Goodnight Robicheaux was thirty-three when he agreed to a railroad warrant. He hated the railroad more than he’d hated the warrants with Sam. For all their pretty talk and the war they'd just gone through, the railroad was nothing more than another form of slavery, just as ugly, just as gritty. He’d seen the workers building west, the freedmen and Irish toiling day after day and sleeping like soldiers while the little caboose always lagged on the rails behind them, and he could only imagine how it was for the workers building east. He was thirty-three, and already he had lived more of a life than many of the aging gentlemen he'd grown up around. He had felt more love and seen more death, known more toil, than every man he'd grown up with. He had left his spine in Sharpsburg and his heart at home. There was nothing more left.

“Goddamned celestial caused a massacre in here, got my three top men, couldn’t tell who was who after he was done,” Gregory Smith had said when the man in the office recommended Goodnight for security, and with no other options and Smith ready to dole out money, Goodnight had found himself turning the little gray mare south, supposing it wouldn’t matter if the man in the warrant got a hold of him.

Whatever his name was—and Goodnight stood no chances of pronouncing it with his tongue trained for English and French—he was easy enough to track. In a mad southern dash, he’d gone tearing through Minnesota and Iowa, leaving a streak of usually-slashed bodies in his wake, and Goodnight followed along weeks behind.

Whatever his name was, he was moving fast.

It rained in the territories as Goodnight crossed Missouri, skirting the edge of the state and heading into Arkansas. He considered giving up his hunt and turning east to find Mrs. Whitaker, but he kept going south, closer into Texas. The odds of him finding her were just as slim as his warrant man, and at least he would give enough money for food. Although, with due credit to the mounting body count, Goodnight was beginning to doubt he stood any chance at bringing him in, no matter if he could keep his hand steady enough to shoot or not.

Within two weeks of passing into Texas, the trail was as fresh as ever—though it was hard to lose track of “a celestial devil with blades for hands,” as Smith had described when detailing the deaths of his men. Local accounts of his passing were equal parts praising and derogatory, and following their pointing fingers, Goodnight and the little gray mare trotted into a town too close to this side of Shreveport, both dusty and tired and in need of a decent meal.

He hitched his horse in front of the saloon, ready for good drink above all and to inquire about lodgings, and made his way to the bar. It was either a small town or a terrible saloon, judging from the few patrons that loitered—a single card table, two working women, a handful of men scattered elsewhere with their bottles—and small town or not, it only reaffirmed Goodnight’s belief that no one outside of New Orleans knew how to run a bar.

“Whiskey, Tennessee if you have it,” he said to the barman, “and I’d like to inquire about more substantial fixings if you have those too.”

“Smoked a hog this morning, can bring a slice of it and some of Mrs. Johnson’s potatoes out in just a moment,” the barman replied from the side of his mouth not occupied with tobacco.

Goodnight jerked his head. “That’s just fine, and—you know what, I’ll take the bottle.” So with a bottle of Tennessee whiskey in hand and the prospect of a decent meal, Goodnight settled himself into a corner of the saloon and prepared to wait out the evening.

The barman has just started towards a back room when the saloon doors opened again to a lithe, scowling man, his steps tight and clipped. He surveyed the room; from the whisper that swept through, the room surveyed him in return, Goodnight included, for Fortuna had just spun his wheel upwards. Any reasonable man would have found an excuse to leave a bar turned hostile so suddenly. Any reasonable man would not have gone on a slicing spree through the western territories, yet here they were; and there he was, spinning on his heel to face the bar. From a low, rumbling voice, came an assumed request for a drink.

The barman spat inches from his hand. “No chinks allowed.”

“I can pay,” the man Goodnight swore the warrant belonged to said. His even voice, the type Goodnight would have found himself inclined to obey, was impressive and somehow loud in the silence he had brought with him.

“Like hell you can,” one man from the card table shouted, while another cried, “Ain’t taking service with him.”

“You heard me and them. Don’t want your business or the money that probably isn’t yours in the first place, so get your lousy, no good—”

Quicker even than Micah finding the alcohol, the man from the warrant reached to his belt and dropped a tinkling pouch onto the counter. “I’d like food.”

“Cain’t you hear,” was the last cry before the click of a gun that would never fire.

Whoever had cocked the gun felt the cold slice of a blade to his chest before he ever felt the resistance of the trigger, and it was only a terrible spiral downward from there. Another gun cocked and fired, sending Goodnight burrowing between the chair and table, half to get out of sight, half in unconscious panic. Followed by a grunt, a sickening squish told Goodnight that someone else had met the man with blades for hand’s wrath, and only when there were no more squishes did Goodnight realize he’d closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes to find a pair of dark ones on him.

Six feet was all that was between them, just enough space that neither could let down his guard, and the other man kept his grip on his knives, feet planted solidly apart, eyes trained on Goodnight’s like a cat stalking a bird in the yard. Goodnight couldn’t say he was so inclined to feel this man’s wrath, but he’d be a liar if he said it wasn’t impressive.

“I can hit a two-inch target from a mile away,” he said, the corner of his lip involuntarily quirking upwards, “but that was one of the most inspiring displays of weaponry that I've ever had the honor of viewing.”

_And I have seen some displays,_ his tone added.

“I've had lots of practice,” the man said, squinting. 

“So have I,” Goodnight added with a nod. He squinted as well, then scoffed, moving his gaze behind the man’s shoulder. Bodies decorated the floor, slashed open in just the right spots, blood running together to form one dark pool; bodies cut down without a sound. Who would have thought that was possible?

“You shoot,” he asked, and Goodnight turned his attention back to the man, following his gaze down to his own shaking hands.

“More than you’d know,” Goodnight answered, and balled his fists. He couldn’t thread a yoke with his hands like they were.

He looked back up then, at the man with steady hands and silent weapons, the man with all the grace that Goodnight so desperately wished he still had. There was no way he could bring in this man even if he had anything more than a desire to eat fueling him.

But if there was anyone in the world who could serve warrants successfully, it was this man.

“In about two minutes, any screaming bordello girls and gamblers that got away are going to have the sheriff and every deputy in here. Now, if you promise not to disappear on me or slit my throat when I turn my back, I promise to get rid of them. Do we have a deal?”

He seemed to think for a moment. Ready at any moment for his own impalement, Goodnight waited for him to decide he wasn’t worth it, but with another glance to Goodnight’s shaking rifle, he squared his jaw and sheathed his knives.

It was almost genuine, Goodnight thought at the shadow of a smile that skimmed across his face, and he didn’t know exactly how to feel about it. But he tipped his head in acknowledgement and said, “I see we’re in agreement. Goodnight's my name, Goodnight Robicheaux. Now, you leave this to me. Damn Texans aren’t half as hard to handle as they’re like to think.”

Finding a new swagger that did not match his weary soul, he sauntered toward the door, where voices gathered outside, their owners clamoring inside before Goodnight could exit. He held up his hands.

“Easy now, gentleman, there's no need to get up in arms about this.”

“This sonuvabitch Chinaman killed—”

“You'd do very well not to insult my friend here,” Goodnight said sternly but motioning genially behind him.

“Your friend,” the sheriff snarled. “Does your friend have a name?”

“Rene.”

Goodnight thought he deserved credit for not missing a beat, but that still didn't excuse the stupidity of his answer.

“Rene?”

“That's right. Rene Picard,” Goodnight insisted, though it didn’t work to pacify the sheriff, and with good reason, but there was one name that could pacify him. Channeling any part of Salome still around, Goodnight scowled and tipped his chin up. “Now you listen here. My name’s Goodnight Robicheaux, and that’s my friend Rene Picard, and I’d come along to secure us lodgings for the night, and what do I find instead but utter disrespect and hostility towards not only my friend, but myself as well, soiling the good Southern name.”

As though the Reaper himself had come to call, a hush fell over the mob, now slack-jawed and starry-eyed at the mention of such a legend of the Cause, though one that thought the Cause would have been better off dead from the beginning. Goodnight pushed back his shoulders. “With the nerve of this town, it’s no wonder I _still_ haven’t gotten the meat and potatoes I was promised.”

The sheriffs mouth flapped a few times, shaking his jowls before he managed, “Sorry, Mr. Robicheaux, this is nothing but a misunderstanding—”

“I’ll goddamn say!” If how he felt was any indication, Goodnight assumed then that Salome had greatly enjoyed life. “Now, does it take dance through the thoroughfare for a man to get the meal he was promised, or what?”

As the sheriff muttered that he’d leave him be, the barman hurried off into a back room, and Goodnight, offering something of a smile because that had been almost fun, motioned towards a table. There was a moment of an awkward standoff as neither wanted their back to the other; finally Goodnight made the first move, his every hair standing on end in wait of _Rene_ to prove they weren’t quite friends.

The barman slid two plates in front of them with an, “On the house.”

“Would you look at that. I always knew I had a thespic calling.” He was met with such a stare that he immediately regretted thinking he’d impersonated Salome well. “Well…it’s no matter. Go on, have your meal. It is on the house, after all.”

And have his meal, he did, hunkered low over the plate that was rapidly clearing, reminding Goodnight of the dogs that had wandered the streets and had eaten from the gutters. It sent a sting through Goodnight’s chest at the thought of a human being so deprived that he would eat that way, though on a second thought, experience gave the best pity. He pushed at his own food and considered giving it away; in the end, his stomach won out.

“Quite the reward on your head,” Goodnight said once the crowd had calmed and gone back to the original quiet lull.

“You want to know how I got it?” If he’d relaxed any, it was gone immediately, his shoulders stiffening over his plate and one hand falling from his fork to rest on the hilt of a knife.

“Oh, calm down, or you’ll have everyone doubting your name is Rene. I’d have to be slower than a tortoise in molasses to think I had any chance of bringing you in, and as a matter of fact, I don’t have any interest whatsoever in learning how you got it. That’s your story, and you aren’t entitled to tell it,” Goodnight said, mostly because that was a two-way road. If the man kept his story, then Goodnight could keep his—and he did want to keep it.

“What I would like to know is what your name really is, considering we’re sharing a drink and all. Can’t say my tongue likes to pronounce anything that isn’t French or Southern, and I’d like to keep what dignity I can.”

Peering at his plate like it could give him the answers, he considered for a moment before saying to his food, “Billy.”

“Billy,” Goodnight repeated, drink poised at his lips, and snorted. “Just slightly more believable than Rene, but if you want to be called Billy, I can call you Billy.”

* * *

Augusta had always taken care of him, and even after four years of being apart, he thought she was still doing her job. There he'd been, in a bar in Texas working as a bounty hunter, being told to bring in an Asian man for who knew what, and she was still taking care of him. She'd had the magnificent quality of always knowing exactly what he needed—he just never thought it would be in the form of a petite Korean son of a bitch who held his hair back with a deadly weapon, and who was the embodiment of Salome.

If Goodnight was the Angel of Death, Billy Rocks must have been Hades himself.

But somehow Billy Rocks had come tumbling into his life, quiet and more observant than even Goodnight. Billy with his silent knives. Billy who was always grounded while Goodnight struggled to keep the past from the present. Billy, who Goodnight learned to read as well as he had Augusta.

At first Billy was mostly silent and merely regarded Goodnight with solemn, almost cold eyes, eyes that were damnably discerning. He never said a word, though Goodnight did enough talking for the both of them. At one point, huddled by a fire somewhere close to the Texas line during one of his spiels about the moon and the stars, Goodnight finally stopped for a moment to completely look at Billy. “You sure don't have much to say.”

In return, Billy shrugged. His mouth a straight line, face so serious, his eyes seemed to dance in a way Goodnight had not yet noticed as he said, “I've been waiting for you to stop.”

And while they'd formed a partnership, it was that moment that Goodnight, with a familiar ache in his heart, felt their friendship form. He thought of Augusta, who would chatter away when given the chance but who usually resigned to letting Goodnight get out all of his thoughts, who was quiet until she popped off a smart remark like that.

Two months later, upon discovering Billy could not read the menu at the restaurant where they'd stopped, Goodnight set out to teach him. They poured over newspapers and the few books Goodnight still carried with him, over pieces of paper where Goodnight had written the alphabet and a few simple words. And while he was loving every minute of being able to share his passion for words, he couldn't help but remember his little wife bent over paper as she taught anyone who was willing. Then came that familiar ache, and when it entered, he often had to stop for the evening.

Nights were the worst though. Once in a blue moon, he'd be able to get a decent rest, but other nights, he tossed and turned, feet kicking down a blazing door in a fire he'd never seen or fingers twitching as he pulled an invisible trigger. Usually, if they touched, they slept back to back, and Goodnight's hands lay awkwardly beside him, unable to hold a little form to him that he could fall asleep petting. And some nights, worst of all, were the ones where he woke screaming and thrashing, the ones where he felt Billy's hand where another's should be. After the fear and panic left, and his senses settled—or got as close to settled as possible—he felt a familiar ache.

He spent six years like that, shaping Billy until he had him as close as possible to the gaping hole that Ames and Augusta had left, but no matter what he tried he couldn't make Billy perfect. So he stopped trying and eventually took Billy for what he was, and he let the winds of the west blow through the gaps as they travelled the country. He spent the years taking out his little tin from his breast pocket when Billy wasn't around and letting his soul drink in the faces he'd lost. There was Ames on Goodnight’s wedding day; there was Ginny, and there was Beau, and there was his _vie_. He tried to let it comfort him that his children would never know the pains of adulthood and would always have their innocence, shoulders never burdened by things like war; his wife would always be just like she was in the picture, young and beautiful and full of love for him. 

Always he felt a familiar empty ache in his chest that told him Augusta still had his heart with her.

* * *

Billy’s never been a drinker.

He can’t say that he likes the burn as it slides down his throat, nor the smells that lingers on his person. He doesn’t like the way it makes men, how they totter about, slurring and stumbling, nothing but stupid fools. He likes to keep his wits about him. He likes to be in control, and he likes to be prepared for whatever may come their way. His way, now.

He doesn’t feel in control now. He feels like he's been launched from one of the cannons that plague Goodnight, and he's hurtling faster and faster towards an impending doom. He feels like he'd been watching a rumbling volcano, and in his stupidity is somehow surprised that it erupted.

It’s what he gets for letting himself get too comfortable, he thinks, and then feels a pang of regret because he hadn’t been the only one to get too comfortable. There was such a difference in the beginning and the end, when Billy’s muscles had ached from staying constantly tense, ready to kill Goodnight if he had to, and when Goodnight had moved with an air that said _I know you could kill me, and I don't want that, but, well, if it happens, it wouldn't be the worst thing;_ there was such a difference between then and now when they could lean against each other and share a conversation without ever using words. The ache that existed in both of them never really went away, but there was a comfort and an ease that Billy thought had overridden it.

But it hadn’t just been with Goodnight. Something about the other five men, no matter how brash or childish they were, had given him a sense of calm that he’d never expected to have with anyone besides Goodnight, and he’d enjoyed it, the manual labor next to Vasquez and their quiet conversations, Vasquez with his quick tongue and Billy with his deliberate one; had enjoyed lighting a real cigarette on a porch made hazy with smoke and lazy jokes; had enjoyed spending time with _others_. To admit it feels greedy and ungrateful, but even with Goodnight, there had always been a lingering isolation.

If it is his fault though, it’s not like it really matters. Whatever ill feelings he has will be gone tomorrow. Better to use his energy for other things than a grudge. Or heartache. Whichever.

He pours a shot and throws it back.

* * *

“You’ll remember me as I was,” Goodnight says with a tip of his hat.

But that’s the problem, Sam thinks as he watches him mount his horse. He does remember him as he was. Sam remembers him with a book in hand and a smile on his face, remembers when his swaggering gait wasn’t a show. Sam remembers him so at ease and hanging onto his wife’s every movement, so proud of his son, so enthralled with his daughter. He remembers him so differently from how he is.

His heart twists even tighter as Goodnight rides away. He had lied to his face, though not for the first time. He’d known who Goodnight would think of when he said he’d be disappointing more than just him, but it isn’t true. He’s seen the way Billy watches Goodnight, watches the way he reacts, the way he moves, as if waiting for this very moment, and if they have been together for so long, he must have known this was coming; if they have been together for so long, he would know well enough not to be disappointed. And as for her—it’s not Goodnight in whom she’d be disappointed. She’d had a big heart, and she’d never turned down those in need. She would have come to help prepare, held the hands of those grieving, quenched parched throats, but she would have done what Goodnight was doing now. Now, in the time of peril, she would have packed up her family and left, for that was where her loyalty had been, and in the end, her loyalty was unwavering.

He’s sorry for what he’s done. He’s sorry for letting her down. His heart twists even tighter, but it’s not enough.

* * *

While his horse’s hooves pound the ground, Sam’s words pound in his mind. “You leave, and you'll be disappointing more than just me and these townsfolk.” Goodnight hates how right Sam was, how right Sam always is.

But no matter how right Sam is, Goodnight can't bring himself to stay. Leaving is just another addiction; he'd done it all those years ago, over and over, and now he just can’t stop. He hunkers lower over his horse’s neck and urges it on, faster, away from Rose Creek. His chest is tight, and his shoulders are heavy, a feeling he gets whenever the war comes too close and home gets too far.

“Goddamn it, Sam,” Goodnight says aloud. Sam has that magnificent quality of always having the exactly perfect words for any situation; he has the magnificent quality of saying one thing aloud but implying something entirely different, and it’s infuriating.

Jack, Red, Faraday, Vasquez, they would all be disappointed in him, the Goodnight Robicheaux, Angel of Death. What a hero he was supposed to be, had been made out to be, but really he was a hero afraid of his own shadow. And Billy—Billy knew his ways, and he never said anything, but Goodnight knew he was disappointed in him. That silent disappointment was louder than any insult.

Goodnight knows exactly who Sam had meant. And Goodnight was disappointed in himself because he knew it was true.

Gasping for air, Goodnight slows his horse to a stop and gets off before he falls off. He kneels over, trying to calm himself, but everything is tight. His throat, his chest, it’s all tight like he’s suffocating, drowning under the weight of everything he regrets and is so afraid to do. And this time, there are no gentle fingers or soft voices to pull him through _._

“Gus—Augusta,” he gasps, clenching his hands around the earth. “Jesus, Augusta, help me.”

He thought he'd done enough crying when he'd talked to Billy, but then again, he'd thought he'd done enough crying the day he and Sam had left Louisiana. Still the tears had continued to come long after that, and the tears come again. “I'm sorry, Augusta.”

He turns his face up to the moon. Once upon a summer in another lifetime, in the middle of a forest halfway between Sharpsburg and Fredericksburg, he had read a letter about how lovely a thing the moon was, because no matter where he was, she was looking up at the same moon too, and no matter where he was, they could share that moment. Like Sam, Augusta had that magnificent quality of always being right. Goodnight wanted to resent her for it sometimes, if only to have some sort of negative feeling, but somehow it made him miss her more. He wished so desperately that he had a reason to resent her, but he only resented himself.

“I've lived a long life, Augusta—well, it's been long all things considered. And I'm ready to see you, but…I'm not ready to die, not here, not like this. Not like this.” Give him the roar of an army and the weight of the dead piling onto him, give him the babble of a creek and the shade of a tree, a gentle voice to soothe him out, give him anything but what he was given.

He closes his eyes again and wills his mind to still, but all he can see are his past transgressions. Beau giving a valiant effort to keep the tears at bay and prove to his daddy that he’s man enough to protect their family, and Ginny’s little fingers playing in his beard, trying to figure out what was wrong with her daddy’s face. Salome hugging him as she said he was a good man. Turning his back on Oceane, for what had become of Augusta’s beloved nieces and nephews? The eyes of the man he’d shot point blank from Micah’s side. The eyes of all those he’d killed, from Pennsylvania to Georgia to California. The way Augusta had looked beneath the willow in 1855, under the light of the flambeaux in the parade, on their wedding day, on the balcony in Paris; the way she had looked holding their son for the first time, as the hostess for the Fat Tuesday ball. When she’d begged him to stay.

The way her lips had moved as she said, “ _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime.”_

_Jamais je ne t'oublierai,_ indeed.

And oh, oh God, Billy...Billy in Texas, straightening himself from his brawl, the first time he smiled there by the fire, how his eyes twinkled when he told a joke. Billy leaned over him after a nightmare, Billy’s warmth on winter nights. Just _Billy_.

Somewhere along the way, amidst all the alley fights and nightmares, after Goodnight had _just_ _stopped trying_ to force him into the gaping hole, Billy had fallen into place.

He balls up his overcoat and lays on his back to look up the moon. It's the same one that hangs over Louisiana. If things had been different, he could have been seeing this moon from another view. _If things had been different_ is what he’s spent his life thinking, though. If things had been different, if this hadn’t happened, if that hadn’t happend, if he could have another life, if he hadn’t been dealt this hand—

“These cards are shit,” he can hear Faraday grumbling because the man is never without them on him; but he can see Faraday playing with them anyway and either losing the round or bluffing his way out. If only that’s how he had played, kept going and bluffing, or cheating his way through when no one was looking.

Goodnight lays there just _remembering_ for what feels like minutes until a rumble echoes to him through the ground. Eos is driving her chariot across the sky and leaving a trail of roses in her wake, and if it were any other morning, he might take the time to admire it, wax poetic and quote Donne or Wordsworth. But it’s not any other morning; it’s just like Sam had said, seven days earlier, and there’s an army marching along the path Goodnight had fled. They’re marching down the long drive towards the gleaming white jewel where the only thing Goodnight has left in the world waits.

_He wasn’t supposed to be alone._

He puts a foot in the stirrup.

Goodnight had thought he'd been meant to die next to his family. He'd wanted to die with his eyes on gray-haired Augusta, with her eyes on him, listening to her soft voice as he slipped away. He'd wanted his last moments to be with her and his last sights to be of her, and it's a want he's spent too much of his life agonizing over. It's a want he can't have. It's a want that maybe he doesn't quite have anymore. 

If he is going to die looking at anyone, he knows whose face he wants to see.

It’s hard to see people buried. It’s harder to be the one burying them, and it’s harder still when one loves them because it is like burying oneself. People are always little pieces of others, no one a whole person unto themselves, and when they leave, it isn’t only them who is leaving. Goodnight understands this. He understands that when his father died, so had he and his mother and Valentine, and when Ames had died, so had he and Mathilde, and so Augusta too had died with them, died for them. Sam, he had died with her, with the children, alongside Goodnight too, and then he had died with Mammy and Ruth, died finally with no more left to him, but Goodnight—he had kept going, kept clinging to something, floating in a stupor until he had found something to make living worthwhile.

He turns his horse around, back towards the flames. It must be heroic, he thinks, to have something so loved it is worth dying for, not he's never known anything about heroic. He’s never been a martyr, not like Augusta was, not like Mrs. Cullen is aiming to be. He's never had a cause, not even The Cause, but at least now, he has someone.

Goodnight kicks his horse forward, urging it into a gallop, back the way he’d come. For so long, he’d wanted to be buried beneath the rubble and ash too, but this is the chance he’d thought he’d missed. It’s time to spur his horse down the long drive, bring vengeance for innocents, let go of his wrath and rage until there’s nothing left.

He hopes the town is on fire. He hopes the flames lick at him and realize that Louisianans can’t be burned or beaten or broken. He hopes the devil’s come to pay his respects because Goodnight has handful of demons he’d like to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm blaming this last semester for it taking me more than four months to update a chapter that was more or less done, but really, it was all on me. And I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but that's mostly on the fact it took too long to get out, I think. I did lose focus and dedication and motivation, and I've gone through a lot recently, although it hasn't been as much as what I went through when I first started writing this because...
> 
> I grew up with my grandparents and watched basically every Western, The Magnificent Seven included, and the day this movie came out was the day of my grandmother's funeral. This movie really made me feel better, and writing this helped me cope with that loss. Writing this helped me grow as an author and a person, and I will forever love this piece because it helped me understand what it means to make something. And to write. I will forever love this fandom for helping me keep my spirits up, and I will forever love love love you, warqueenfuriosa and 8OrangeMatilda8, for indulging me and helping me get through it.
> 
> Also, many thanks to James Horner and his soundtrack, the Cloud Atlas OST, Corynorhinus (Batman Begins), A la claire fontaine (Hell on Wheels/The Painted Veil), and Annabel (The Duhks) for giving me background/inspirational music. Thank you to Hell on Wheels and Deadwood for keeping my Western passion hot. And again, thank you warqueenfuriosa and 8OrangeMatilda8. Seriously. Thank you.
> 
> Now the end is here and it's time to celebrate with muffin that I've been waiting to eat until I finished, and tomorrow I will finally visit the New Orleans restaurant in town that I promised myself as my reward. And then, I'm going to buckle down on the other thing that has been distracting me, a Mag7 collaboration titled The Robicheaux-Rocks Home for Wayward Boys. Or, affectionately, Ding Dong Ditch. 
> 
> I will see Sam, Goodnight, and Billy in New Orleans soon, but goodbye Foxsong. Goodbye Miller boys and the Jarreau clan and Magees and the Verret sisters. Goodbye Evercreech sisters. Goodbye Ruth and Mammy, and goodbye little Beau and sweet Ginny. Goodbye Ames and Mathilde. Goodbye Augusta. I have loved you all, and one day I may come back and tweak this because I know I missed things in editing and I'm not 100% happy even though I kinda am. But until then
> 
> Jamais je ne t’oublierai.

**Author's Note:**

> After many exchanges of messages with warqueenfuriosa (lots and lots of thanks) about Goody's life before the war, what led up to it, and the things that continued to haunt him, this is the result. As a warning, it'll probably be a pretty slow build.


End file.
